Flying With Wet Wings For Martin Wallner, 1955-2001 If we could calibrate the weight of our sorrow, our grief we could shrug it, shuck it, shake it like dogs swirl rain off coats soggy from a wet walk. We would then be light, downright giddy from the sense of loss of the sense of loss. I watched a chevron of geese fly through heavy rain their inner gyros set for south. How hard, I thought to fly with water-weighted wings. They've no alternative to nature's flight plan. And so they fly. The chevron wavered, the leader dropped back for respite. Another took its place and they were gone.
What I know of the known world: that it is smaller than both the universe and my spirit. It's populations fugitive and tense. I have its map and it has changed: Tanganyika shapeshifted to Tanzania. Burma now Myanmar the Congo morphed to Zaire, Yugoslavia riven into Serbia and Montenegro. What is on my wall is nostalgic geography. My own geography is not impervious to change: my hair now gray my step less sure but my spirit sanguine in this world, not of it.