Flight

[milo]

It is the lie of birds that you need wings,
the lie of time that gravity
brings you to the ground, presses
like a pillow against your face;
soft, unbreakable.

The clouds of summer call
like cold salt-cream, but wait
till autumn forms
as long striated runways in the sky,
then climb

higher than the jealous, root-bound
trees can stretch their branches,
hooked and bare like knuckled grasps.
Go to where the cliffs tower,
where the sea crashes far below and mists
up in a howl of billows, the pale blue
of a loose night shirt.

Link arms and dive
upwards till the sound of surf,
breaking bones on rocks,
dissolves in white-noise static.
Twist through the clouds
in their spectre-gray grave linens
to where the oxygen is rare
spun candy on your tongue,
cast off earth-heavy thoughts,
close your eyes
and fly.