I sit comfortable
as our conversation
rambles on global politics,
food, thoughts on climate,
sitting in brilliant sun,
my eyes hidden behind
darkened glass,
my face shaded
from burn, annointed
with lotions to prevent
me from that myth
of flying close to the sun,
but fly I do
on my fragile wings.
Maybe I’ll wait for
a perfect moment
to swing my sword
hammered from nouns
and verbs into a casual
implement of vengance,
or maybe I own
a sensitive memory
to a missing history,
or a forgetfulness
to consequence brought
on by delight in summer heat,
but wax holding feather
to wing has begun to melt
and watching that first
feather detach itself
makes me laugh,
the second, not so much,
as it brings a chill
when I begin to see
my framework exposed.
So far above mountains
and fruited plains am I,
descent is ecstatic. So
fascinated in my freedom,
I imagine paradise, so
when will I recall
that wag who quipped,
“it’s not the fall that kills;
it’s the sudden stop
at the bottom.”
