We talked
as if we didn’t know,
or, what is worse,
as if we did. Even truth
tires of its own
expression. Flight
is real. The wing
carries us. But the eye
testifies only
to the arc, and a sky
too blue to understand.

Put simply,
nothing is.
Still, the eye
insists on flight,
and a reason
for sky.

We talked of love,
of the heart’s thin
atmosphere, and the dangers
of flying. Our eyes
met, leaped
the gap. Nothing
was between
us, and we knew
it, folded it
to ourselves like a wing
curved to empty space.