Flight

[billy]

i missed this one;
i can't really give constructive feedback because i like everything about it. some of the images are excellent.

i'll be honest and say i didn't see how time lies about gravity. (but that was me missing the obvious) once i'd read the poem a few times i had a hallelujah moment and saw the light so to speak. it's very hard for me to pull at it. i think something doesn't work and then it becomes evident and obvious. i have no idea what cold salt cream is but it was easy enough to imagine i did.

i have no idea why but;

i did read the static comment and felt the same way that it verged on cliche but i think it should stay as it was. they're the right words for the line. if i had a suggestion, it would be to remove the word static. as white-noise says shows it all.

in their spectre-gray grave linens
felt a little awkward. other than that i saw nothing out of place.

It is the lie of birds that you need wings,
the lie of time that gravity
brings you to the ground, presses
like a pillow against your face;
soft, unbreakable.

The clouds of summer call
like cold salt-cream, but wait i like the enjambment here and in many other places.
till autumn forms
as long striated runways in the sky,
then climb

higher than the jealous, root-bound
trees can stretch their branches,
hooked and bare like knuckled grasps.
Go to where the cliffs tower,
where the sea crashes far below and mists
up in a howl of billows, the pale blue
of a loose night shirt.

Link arms and dive
upwards till the sound of surf,
breaking bones on rocks,
dissolves in white-noise static.
Twist through the clouds
in their spectre-gray grave linens
to where the oxygen is rare
spun candy on your tongue,
cast off earth-heavy thoughts,
close your eyes
and fly.