By water's edge
I tramp compliant grass
into a dancing ring,
sing on the breeze a name
no mouth has uttered here
since the white man came.
In earthward turn of wrist
I thrust an airless wing
against a blast
of the idea of uplift.
In flex of arm, I seem to rise
into the memory of flight —
I have been here before
in childhood levitation,
hand on banister, yet feet
not touching any but the top
and bottom stair-tread —
Blocked at the last by weight,
I sink! The weight of what?
Cloth, shoes, a belt, a watch,
the fear of spectacles
dashed onto the rocks below
should I rise too far and fast.
Must one be naked for this?
To become weightless
is no small matter!
— 1974/ rev 2020
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