I soar above treetops.
Under milky stars
and along balmy currents,
In my recurring dream, I fly.
Until it was more acceptable to be uncomfortable,
Until I became too heavy,
Until flying became a childhood memory.
Clipping one feather at a time
It was a slow landing.
The earth under my palms and grass under my knees
The bright stains of phthalo and veridian were absorbed
into social cages. Did I once see
Over street wires and alder leaves?
I want to flap my arms – an action that seems silly.
Weighted with crumbly soils and cool shadows
Can I still lift into the evening?
Can I still fly?
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