Tuesday, July 22, 2003


As we fall off the terrace, we think of sand.
Moon perhaps, shadow of self
Arcing towards concrete
Hopefully cocooned in a dune
We land with a flump
And the stars blur, and shatter and
Shimmy into sight once more with
Every heaving breath- I’m alive,
I’m alive, I’m alive, I landed with
A thump and a push squirming into light and life
(keep your elbow tucked in, miss)
Squinting and shrieking-

Flying through the air we can soar
and swoop and whistle and sing our glee
And for now we can sit pretty in our ruffled
Bassinet and curl our fingers and smile at the
Memory of flight.

Mina at 5:47 PM