The Metamorphic Man

My arms clasp tight as the neutral engine comes to a full stop combustion dies, and the collars around the throats of roaring engines cool into a death mask of tripped out destination sickness. Leaning into the wind the thrust of gravity into the spring toed traps that one would think but the days are evil and the sun is out. Hollowed son decades above the tree lines below swinging in sync as the wave jives within limbered lumber the day snapshots as I move into the grain of systematic warm fronts. Doors clap, shoes on tap as the taste of coffee rolls from ear to ear; I dial in from coast to coast clearing the optic pat down that the cliff side hang outs gift. Alone pressed against the wind I stand on basins too brown for sight the back drop to roadside canyon ventures that maroon into the fading the sun that does not know it's already asleep. Too smart for his own good, and alone in this atmosphere I open the jacket abroad it falls to sleep for what seems like 30,000 feet into the distance there is no turning back.

Sharp edged shoes frame the horizon as I step into thin air suspended as heel over heel the sky embraces me as one by one I come undone. Sprinkles dissipate at first like the few grains of sand that fall within the hour glass as these are the days of my life. Subtle pieces unglue, and unwrap as I fall up with the wind all exhales into the drift. The pieces of me that fall up go to and fro as butterflies lit with summer blue deep and bright come to life and scatter by the millions hung up in lights I drift to sleep 30,000 feet in my window seat exhale the recycled air.