Rejection of Gravity

Sometimes the world is too small,

then it expands into something

too big,

where bartenders “hook me up”

by ruining my cocktail

with too much booze.

It shrinks again,

no longer having enough space

for the semis on eighty-five.

Then I’m back in the rock shop,

fragments of the earth in my hand,

allegedly grounded.

I’d rather be aired or watered (no,

not fired), something light

that lets me breathe,

slakes my thirst, bearing me

up on the wings of a hawk,

red-tailed, feathered,

riding thermals, swooping rivers,

pine trees like tall grass

in the sky, far away from

the ground, an escape,

a rejection

of gravity.