I’m just as clumsy as in real life—
just as graceless as in swimming. I know—
though no one’s taught me this—that my legs
ought to be straight, but they tend to think
they’re springs. I fight that.
I also have the sense I’m flapping my arms
too strenuously, but at this point I need to,
it’s clear. These last three nights
there’ve been no thermals 
that I could find, and I often think when
I’m far up how strong they need to be
to keep me there.

I’m adjusting altitude.
The first flights were short, quick, uncontrolled,
but now I look in the distance
& pick a place & try to adjust gradually.

Look: if there’s a metaphor, it’s yours;
I just woke up & am telling how I fly in dreams.

Can’t yet take flight 
from the ground—have to start in a high place,
so in dreams I tend to hang around friends
who live on hills, or visit friends with ladders.
But still, I’m flying,
am in the first blush of the thing
and can’t quit.

Wires are horrible. They’re all over—
more than I’d ever imagined.

You can look down & laugh all you want 
when you’re up, but if even once you think
I can’t do this, you’re down. That
can be dangerous, and it’s been a problem for me,
but I’ve found a way to deal with it. 			
There’s this clique of particular thought:
I can’t do this, This isn’t logical, I don’t have 
wings/hollow bones, etc., Why am I 
the only one up here, and anyway how . . .

I’ve corralled them: put them in a group,
circumscribed them with a mental rope—
and there they stay while I fly,
arguing among themselves as to who
will break through to articulation.
But none do anymore. I’m the boss 
of my own words, and flying's wordless,
and needs to stay that way.
It has to do with joy.