How windless is a flush!
How fireful is a war!
Tremble, bristle, rustle, sway–
a teatime keeps us from
being swept away.
You must live
as an artist for ten years,
perched on designated plane,
corrugated as a battleship,
poised toward a good place
for forgetting that the oil
of her painting
and livid is the quiet strength
of nation making.
Flights of ego and heart
and quietened. Membraneous
mackerel come to feed
in fountains under
rainbows by a hotel’s night.
Plains are panels of
inspiration, bedecked in
waves of undulation.
Advancement is the zephr
…and yet no one sketched
the umbrella of a cyclone.
Humans know the measure of vapor
trailing its way through
bodies of paper… crowding in
one direction. Meanwhile, we
learned from quake and quiver
that we were not ultimately poor.
The logic of mind to paper in
a windy mathematics of linear
is a conquered kingdom. Bamboo
grass serves and laughs, countries
roll their sleeves,
and masculinity is lighter than
tumbling umbrella. How rough
riveting can be, how tied in knots
are we? The train, the bicycle, the ox,
the telegram, the letter, the cart
are all before
the engineered aeronaut.
As my dream desirously takes wing,
I look askew. My idealism
does not sputter, as bacteria form
a breeze of her.
Some cower to bullies, where flew
her water lilies? Mustached
Italians live in magazines
whose diagrams are engraved by ladders,
europe, and dreams.
These watercolors paint a different aircraft,
not cursed, and yet, all they could land
was “too young.” I choose a world without
pyramids, where mackerel go unsung.
In that field yonder, assemblers
do not push my paper: le vent se leve
and elle qui reve, il faut tenter
de se promener
with blood in her lung.
Japanese boy asks who has seen
the wind?: neither you nor I, in belle sky
of clouds parting… We sit,
flushed and light as rivets,
and endure being aviator and animator’s
last sigh. In the soft countryside,
and transportation are changing…