Zapata, where they sky is an aria.
Brace the structured wings. Below, anemic,
dead-brown foliage of Earth, dying rivers. Look up to see
fresh clouds. Freedom of flying; gliding, gliding.
Halfway to heaven, but going back to dirt and graffiti,
jungles of hearts and words and traffic. For now, whisk
lighter than an airplane into the sky, flighty as a whim,
not so much to run away but to lift your heart and mind. Go
past the trees, the flat roads pocked with cars. It's a sort of tranq,
respite of action, relief stimulated by adrenaline, as the skies
turn various shades of white and blue. This is it for you:
veering along the open range. You're here, no need to withdraw.
Xeroxed memos have nothing on this. Come into the world with joy.