In the dream she’s always falling

Falling seems to drive the dream.

From shark fin cliffs–

Through clouds that smell of buttermint,

Her arms are wide to ride the wind.

No ghost hand shove,

no skittered stones & slip of foot, 

she leans–

And in the lean

She lets the leap,

And in the leap she lets the fall,

And if she lands

And if she lands

She knows the joy–

Her heart will burst.

written on a cocktail napkin, Fall 1998