My dreams of flying are not flamboyant,
as I hover only inches from the ground.
The secret seems so simple
when the earth repels my feet,
yet on waking I forget how not to fall.
I wish my spirit would become so buoyant
that I could confound the crude psychology,
which propounds, by spurious examples,
a theory of sexual conceit.
I want to soar above the glib and the banal.
The lucidity of dreamscape surfing
over pavements and ascending staircases
is what confuses me
and disappoints the most,
for I cannot see how the skill does not translate.
Where fantasy and science are diverging
is the basic, underlying dichotomy
that displaces the locksmith from the key.
Flight is the freedom of a ghost
to haunt the drear dimensions I create.
