There is a kite on the moon, probably
in some crater, whose string I dropped a long
time ago. How do I know it’s there?

The string, week before last, began
to protrude from my ear, to tantal out
like a soft tent worm.

When I pulled at it I realized an end
was coming out my other ear as well, soaring
away upward out of sight.

Even on the moon there are breezes, but
not many. Each time the wind blows,
my head leans to one side
or the other.

Tomorrow I’m going to climb
up and up the string until I
reach my kite, then I’ll fly
down to earth beneath it blowing
kisses at stars as I float past,
taking wide bites from spongy clouds, and then
tangling myself into the top of a tree.

Soon, I’ll forget where I lost
myself. I won’t be able to see me from the ground.

Things go on in the tops of trees
where our eyes can’t go,
just as things go on in the earth
that toes can’t comprehend.

I would gladly go to either
place and just sit and see
what happens.

Ah . . . you must
do all this
when preparing a gift
for the weather.



Filed under: Poetry, Psyche Comments Off
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