The Art of Flying
Apply intent like gentle pressure
to a wound. Superfluous maybe,
but the arms should be extended.
First, a height scaled, a precipice
achieved. Read: a jumping off place.
Try to let go, get heavy
as when you pass from this world
to the other, nightly— chain
breaching a flimsy wall. To rise up,
you must sink like a tonnage of links.
Recognize your intent, but obliquely,
through a half-closed eye. Bow to gravity
as the noose you’ll be slipping.
To join the hollow boned
you’ll have to cast your body down,
cast it off like a wedge of sunlight sliding
from the wall, like the fly
giving its husk to a hook and a nylon line.
But you’re not tethered and you’re not
weightless. So plummet.
Invest not in flight, but falling.
The most you can do is believe
air is measured in fathoms
and bottomless, that earth is a myth
created by birds who would kill for a rest.
The Art of Flying first appeared in Comstock Review