feathers
stuck to the underside of
tar,
wings separated, useless...
You could peel them off the
pavement and paste them back together,
stick them to your arms
and fly too close to the sun
-
do what Icarus did.
this desire to fly that we harbor,
the one that drove Icarus higher
and higher,
our innate need to defy
gravity
that the Wright brothers
semi-conquered,
that caused Neil Armstrong to
stand on the moon
(despite what those conspiracy
theorists would have us believe),
it comes from a memory, our
spirit's memory.
sometimes I fly in my sleep.
i have been told not everyone can
fly.
i need a running start or i land
in a swamp,
my mind battling the constraints
of my corporeal self
rooting us to the earth.
if I am already in water when my
flying self awakens,
i usually can't find my way out;
luckily I can always touch the
reeds with my feet,
so I never drown.
have you ever noticed, in New York
City,
that pigeons rarely succumb to
yellow cabs?
