TELEPHONE LINE 4
Elizabeth, Miranda, Laura, Betsy, Charlie
In learning to fly, you may somersault
among sorbet-tinted clouds – mint, lime,
mango, peach, grapefruit, watermelon,
blueberry, raspberry – but first, you must
master the art of flapping, which is all
in the wrist, that subtle sly arc of tendon
dipping muscle over carpals. To kiss
a sky, befriend the body. Its softenings.
Its sillinesses. How it burbles and flops
and jigs, again and again, inimitable,
uncontainable, until every cell hums
and all boundaries dissolve, until – light
as spun sugar, sweet like maraschino –
the you inside each concedes it delicious.