Suspended here, my hand
has the memory of flying,
of curving, arching on air.
My palm tingles, drawn back
inside the car. I reach back
into the buffeting wind,
the invisible resistance,
the heavy push – uplift.
Pivot from the elbow.
The sweeping movement,
tilt, turn, glide, tilt back,
the slow aerial infinity,
this memory of freedom.
It is possible
to echo the motions,
even now.
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