four-thousand feet in the air
looking over the edge of the basket,
the feeling of wind in your hair
like a pipe has burst and you’re the gasket.

the feeling we’d feel if the world spun slowly,
if the poor were rich and the rich were lowly,
if the strong were weak and the weak were strong—
when Words are art and art is song.

my cup runneth over, it is filled with ink
and doubts and depths and doublethink
the wool is spun, this mess of thread
is the sunlight, the shadow, the sea in my head,
and i untangle it the one way i know how—
i pick up the pen and i write it all out.