It’s a click in the head,
shunt in the marshalling yard as carriages come apart,
small ruptures
in the weeds of ganglion.
Then I am flying.

Like a surfboard
but less devious turbulence
no chafe
or clutter of the tribe.
The air supports
and insinuates.

No flapping of imagined wings
or contraptions that ordered souls can fabricate.
This is simply me
without the gravity,
habits of the feet.

A mind let loose –
one part reads atmosphere maps
thermal tracks
gossip of jetstream.
The rest is gasping with unfixed eyes
at human life made tiny –
a mosaic of congregation.

There is no distance, though touch becomes
a convention dropped along the way.

This is the time most alive
though I suspect I am asleep.
That stuff of bodies and the real
is a debate left adrift.

I am waiting
(some steps closer to empty space)
for solar flares, epiphany/
a collaboration of cockatoos.

Or the southerly change to send me
crashing back to flesh.