TELEPHONE LINE 4

DESSERT SONG

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.