strange days

Chicago

We are already late,
fourth in line for takeoff
and I am tired sometimes
within the heaviness
of my earthbound body.

Awake now — sensation of flying
like leaving something behind,
shedding old skin, becoming
a small god made from
pure bird spirit.

The dark ground is stitched
by crisscross light, and,
somewhere far below,
a couple is nervously
making love for the first time.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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5 Responses to strange days

  1. nananoyz says:

    When I flew frequently I spent many hours thinking about activities the folks down below were engaged in. I called my ruminations “Lives of the Earthbound.”

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