Flying

From this height he sees no people,

only large patches of green

and sand spangled rivers

meandering through occasional cities.

It's hard to tell where he is--

so remote from the turmoil of toiling things

a picture-postcard, perfectly still

suddenly crumpled by the hills.

That's when he once again remembers

what a fine woman she really is

but he worries what he'll be

when he's grounded again--

the god he now feels he is,

the man he finds it hard to be

or just another beast

whose every word or gesture kills.

Back to Selected Poems from Partial Disclosure

 
  Copyright © 2005 - Makarand Paranjape