Flight

Reading my friend's poems, with chai, in SFO. Big warm window. Empty runway. Full sky. The bay glittering in coming early sun. At the other end of the country, Manhattan. Meanwhile, a day of travels. Logan and then Newark.

Mary Ann Mayer's new collection of twenty-eight poems, Salt & Altitudes will accompany me. She writes: Why do I feel so/for this bird, his/curve ball world of vaster space and/intimate gravity?/I'm just a body unlearning itself, one leap, weightless--& the axis of the world/tips her wings.

A good beginning to this journey.