I used to dream of sprouting wings
I used to, used to dream
of soaring, high and imperceptible,
with all the farmlands –
corn, soy, the flowerfields –
arrayed out like a crazy-quilt,
all splotches and angles.
I did not know what mankind does to dreams;
how hurtling through the sky, heedless,
could require months of planning and half a paycheck;
how tight and cramped the limitless spectacle could be;
perhaps a man should never meet his dreams.