When

When

I'm a small bird floating:
only wing and twiggy bone,
a poem sailing a chimera,
where, well above the firm ground
much higher than all mountains,
I hover supported by the membrane
rising heat forms with a frigid sky
here where ideas and images join
here where little is known
here where nothing is said
here where day and night are one,

When

from far below all sight
her voice from a pinpoint
forms, expands, reverberating
reaches me to ask me,

'What's this sticky stuff
all over the kitchen floor
and why is this little bit of
potato salad left in the bowl? '

my muttered 'I'm soaring'
does not reach her way down there
where she may or may not realize
just how very far away
from all of that I've been.

by Edward Coletti

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