i ran
through the woods
to a clearing

and the frosted grass
stopped crunching
under my feet,
and soon

i was aloft
could will myself
through the air
saw my dark green
in the silver grass

i thought forward and up,
went forward and up
felt the sickness of thrill
and rush of fear

the small sadness
of leaving some
bit of self

below: pointillist trees;
above, a milk-misted
and bottomless sky
caressing me

i do not think it was a dream--
sleep, perhaps:

it was
and gravity
taking a nap

while i,
brave fool,
snuck between them
and danced . . .

--Mr. Gobley

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