I radiohead to the silicon cathedral a billion fireflies in the night. I never liked you anyway, mother. In your apartment while you are out of town, writing poems about your shoes. I have no one else to turn to. I think you Wrights might be the only two Ever to inhabit this planet With the capacity to grasp how desperately I need to get this poem off the ground.
Haiku box kites, sonnet launchers, multi-wing pantoums.
I've drafted and redrafted Plans for my own wind-warping design. I've watched narrative prototypes glide Above the dunes to Kill Devil Hill. I've calculated wing lift origami And managed to harness a power source, But this flimsy contraption keeps spinning out of control. I've been considering an extra fold at the tip of the wing. Maybe a paper clip here on the nose Will send it rising and dipping and soaring Through wild blue nouns and sonic verbs, Rolling over upside down to warm its belly in the sun, Plummeting into a syntax that can barely Withstand screaming G-force nosedives.