Hover

Tonight nothing is fair

and everything blurs together:

I want you.

I miss you.

You’re not mine to miss.

Don’t serve the pilot wine,

and don’t squeeze my tricep,

or the whirling dervish

will release a haboob.

Where does the craft land

When grass conceals a flood?

Once again a stranger,

A brunchtime pariah,

I practice my hover

until the ground dries.

I want you.

I need you.

I get you tomorrow.

The skids will be planted,

I will rest upon your thigh,

For a moment, Earth will be mine.

The longing is unbearable.

The landing is certain.

11 June

class G airspace