he's made it to the leaping-off place
it was a beautiful stroll up
and the wind
    makes hair feel free.

he's made it to the leaping-off place
the sky tides the wispy white dreams
of faraway things
    but the ponderous rote
of the dirt
    binds him and bids him delay.

and he writes—

life looks so good in green, friend
a feet-light frenzy in polychromatic feelings
white white fingers on a lite-brite brain
pull out the pegs—time to feel insane
    to let it all out.
sunshine rain from your cucumber eyes
if only the littlest drop
will make me whole
    i'll make my soul an impluvium.

the faraway below, and the folded wings
the sun, the moon, and the unimaginable pinpoints
of what wishes are
    everything in the sky and earth
is in his head
    and his hands are empty.

he's made it to the leaping-off place
and grass stains his jeans as he stares
lost in thought
    wondering, pondering in a storm of
lethargy
    the implications of leaving the ground.