March 11, 2005

fly

—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.
But heard.
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.


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