The Mississippi Kite
In this town of too much atmosphere.
Love found on a blue light, downtown street
can make for the private investigation, while
love discovered back at home more dangerously so.
But I know exactly what my body needs
when I’m out of the city, in between the bayous,
and the Mississippi behind its levee
is the cooling, unseen breeze on my cheeks, or when
the honeybee girls fan my hand between the comb.
Viewed as trade winds I’ve learned love can be contrary.
Sometimes because even honest girls partially know their truths.
On a street at dusk, driving for my apartment,
road work narrows four lanes to two, then one.
Traffic standstill and I look up into the failing blue
and I get stopped a second time. She is that sweet on the eyes.
The girl kite sliding on the uplift, rounding, shaping
currents of air to best advantage;
flight stutter in insect catch, wings reaching broad,
tail fans to a spread. Then muscular, sharp wing pulled in,
so to keep her in perfect, rhythmic turn and tight.
And the equally perfect absorbing blue of her gray flight.
Such purpose in her instincts, in her body;
enough to carry me back to where I once belonged.