On Talking to a Para Glider from New York (28 lines)
In the night I dream of slope running on shingles, grey with age,
one foot on the barn roof, one for the air.
The wind fills the canopy, a forward launch, the hay a safety net below.
I toe the approaching trees: cottonwoods scratching the surface of the sky.
I feel the lift beneath my arm foils, as the core bears me to the vapour base.
The wind at my soles: my tandem partner lifting me.
We dance to the steel groan of the windmill vane,
twitching its arms westward, eyes sharp as we rustle the skirts of gold
We catapult heavenward, cumulus to cumulus, our platform to dive between thermals.
When I wake to the low of cattle feeding,
the iron bed pokes holes in my wings of my nylon cells.
The harness lies mouldering in the right hemisphere of my brain,
tattered dreams of ripstop polyester and childhood dream of flight.
First published in deLuge