In nights of dreams, the clouds fly high above
barn steeples, grazing hay, and toeing trees,
as westward blades of windmills list, shove
the wisps amongst the limbs. The lee
of slope running on shingles gray with age.
The step I take : a foot launch, lifts the wing.
I kettle up the core, Vario gage
beeping . Dew creates bases. Arms I fling
to catch my cloud quay. Unstable as Geier
in flight. I fear not dreams of flying high
to heaven. Gravity of dust, flyer
in hell of air foil collapsing. I die
of trees and rooted rock, awake and bound
once more, in beds of iron, and chains of ground.
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