Jumping the clothesline of my sister’s
flapping diapers, no one around, I keep
on swimming. Dreamy how air turns
to liquid when I’m alone, spread my arms
as if to hug the horizon then leap forward.
On the roof, I hide behind the chimney,
watching Grandma take down clean-smelling
clothes, Mr. Belcher mow his hay, crows
lifting from the field ahead of his tractor,
and I wonder, do birds of all feather dream
of standing on solid ground, never having to fly
away from tractors, cars, cats? I woke tonight,
believing everybody hides the same secret
in sleep. I’d dreamt of not flying, better
than anything, just walking night air.
From: https://thegalwayreview.com/2016/08/13/ron-houchin-four-poems/
Date: 2016
By: Ron Houchin (19??- )
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