I love it when air turns to water.
I am an awkward fish, flailing
arms and legs, but flying nonetheless
over my country. Japanese tourists
raise their cameras in tandem
to shoot me from below. I spot
the friends I have hurt and the ones
who hurt me; they blow me kisses
or fling stones which only arc
so far before swinging back down
to hit innocent people. Wrenching
into clouds of regret, and more clouds
that look like trees, animals,
paroxysms of rage, or drawn-out
poems about disillusionment,
I envision the dark cross of my body
framed against that epic sun,
its static, unfeeling luminosity.
How flight can become an analogy
for love, joy, unburdened time.
Even in sleep, I close my eyes again.
I tell myself that one dream
dovetails into another; the end
of this story is a wall I may fly through
like a finishing line, and keep on
flying without ever having to stop.
