origami

these words
we fold into ourselves

from the broad sheet of all possible words.

these words
we unfold at night

on a tatami mat of  breath.

behind fragile
walls we fold
into each other.

Here.  Listen.

a thousand paper cranes

take flight -

.

foucault's pendulum

the Huma bird

(may its shadow touch us)
      it is said, once it has
taken to flight
      will not

alight

     until at last it must
fall
     back


              to
        the rocks which bore it.

no perch
no roost
no tuck of
                            head
           beneath
wing


foucault's pendulum
completes no circles
 

it is the earth that moves.

cannonballs

we float

      arc’d

  we are

     calculated mid-flight

        our past:  a curved conception

          of perfect beauty

               we are

                  an equation

                    our present:  a sum

                       of averaged and intangible points

                         and infinite tangents

                           described

                            with perfect beauty

  

                                we are

                                  a mathematical purity

                                    our future:  ordained

                                      by the plane which cuts

                                       our paper hats.

                                        parabolae.

                                         we are parallel.

                                         para- ll -el.

                                        parallel. 

                                      infinite in

                                     approachment

                                    rapprochement

                                   reproachment

                                  but always

                                 and finally               

                                unable  to  touch

                           at apogee burned, blinded by light

                         wings already melting.

                        at perigee, in ageless dark

                       stuffed down the barrel; buried

                     near the target

                    and  So  so    cold.

                  subject to

                the gravity

              of the situation

           surrendering to the fall

            

            arc’d

like cannonballs

flying with jack

"HEY! how did you get here?"

my son asked, when

he noticed me behind him.

"i flew"

i replied.

his five year old

not-quite guile-less eyes

widened.

"can you really fly, dad?"

(me, airily)  "oh yes.  but i only do it

when no one is looking.

people often get upset

when they realise you can fly."

"can I fly too, dad?"

"of course.  it's easy

when you know the trick.

but don't let on.

people

might not understand."

a dawning in those

deep brown eyes

the colour of

good strong coffee

in a glass

held to the light

happily

he ran off

to tell his sisters

"i flew"

the combined weight of their

separate scorn

was not enough to

drag him

back to earth

.

september song

go to sleep.
draw the paintshades
down across your rivet eyes

go to sleep.
fold your bullseye head
under your switchblade wing

go to sleep.
let sweet lips of infant pity
kiss your kerosene tears away

go to sleep.

dream of flying.




dream of flying.