Wait, I remember one, one dream.
Flying was done under the usual sun
above the unmown town.
My parachute had the wind in its claw
and I hung there, but that was all.

There is such terror to me.

What dark cook is preparing me for death.
That salt-pinch was a maggot.
My legs below have always been ugly
as blue-vein cheese.
My heart has no blood in its bag,
but I don’t think I need it.
I’ll throw it away.

Fishing-line-sinker me, I hang and bob, downly.
Through all the downs there are: the sky-fog and bristling air. Branch-fork. Grass-tip.
Custard-blonde again through all the downing.
I haven’t got there yet, to the crash-spot marked out
ahead with a circle of upturned frowns.
I haven’t approved this. That’s still needed, isn’t it?
I am mine, thank you.
Not this sky-man’s, whose name I’ve lost,
calling ‘This way. This way’
as if I’m a dunce.