I would like to step outside myself.
To bow from my body and its trivial griefs.
So I rise: above
forests, deserts, seas.
and it feels just how “ascent” sounds.
The soft beginning,
the reverent end.
I become monarch of the crooked sky;
clouds name their heirs for me.
Soon I am written into sunsets,
cutting the ribbon on new galaxies.
Constellations forget their places.
Even gravity grows fond again.
Dining one day I feel the pull of trees,
the earth calling me home.
My plan backfires:
I have become too loved.
Now I am falling through the arms of stars,
wingless as a thing newborn.
I realise this is happiness
only when I look down.