3 a.m., 73 degrees.
Too tired to not giggle over anything,
Watching the river reflect bits of highway lights and stars and living room lamps
The grass bank fuzzy and black bending straightaway toward the tiny airport,
I wonder how many evils drifted in and out of minds tonight,
How many cherries have been popped,
How many eyes sliding under their lids
Jerking with dreams
Heavy and heavier like the air
Rushing over my hand-held wing span
Turn my palm concave and it yanks upward
I close my eyes and fly, fly . . .