All entries for Friday 11 March 2005
March 11, 2005
—Remembrance is your world, to Tong
No living men can fly, but you could.
A sweaty Sunday afternoon, I could not see
the high place where you stood.
Like a swift drawing on the sofa, I could not see
the contour of your body, nor
The curvature of the flight.
In that sweaty bamming afternoon
You were there, landed in solitude.
Eyes open, sight faded.
I only listened, not even there,
But I guessed you saw me, I don't know why
No dead men can ever fly, but you did.