Tuesday, September 21, 2010


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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