Watch me fly, please, picking up feet and hurtling through the air, dead as ghosts and old-time rock'n'roll and picking up speed as I hurtle, whatever wings you see are nothing but bright gossamer in a funeral shroud pressed tight over my face by wind. I will unfold them, I know I can, the ache for it bends my ribs and crushes my lungs with the space it takes inside me. Until I do I dance as the dead around me do, a long quiet whistling plunge.