Night Flyer

Float. Float up, absurd dust mote. Sunday poetry.

Not with strength,
or embannered arms punching through ceilings—
no royal flappery,
no soiled quackery
from twilight dreams.

But dimly seen,
drifting through the dark,
I float in animal feeling,
hands asleep, mind awake,
cradled in quiet screams.

Float. Float up,
absurd dust mote, slipping through walls,
chairs, tables—
chained to the freedom of a dream,
like steam t…