Maybe
I want to sit
on an old wooden bench,
becomes a swing that glides over
the sea.

Maybe
I don’t need these
vocal cords now that I’m
driftwood ready for air cushion
liftoff.

Maybe,
hovercrafting
across the channel that
last lazy summer is flying
enough.

Where were
you, rusty old
moon, that morning I waved
good-bye to France forever (it
turns out)?

A new
definition
of flight to read beneath
your carefully measured light from
a cliff.

Shouting
“Summer’s over!”
Drowned out by the loud whir
of propellers and turboshaft
engines,

no one
heard me whisper
“You, lua, luna, lune,
fengári, tell me how I will
know you

are there,
watching over
me, when I reach the Bronx
to begin my love affair with
New York?”

No one
save you, rusty
old moon. Skirting through air,
making record time on beams of
silver.