The Dream of the Hang Glider

“Why don’t the men fall off their hang gliders,”

asked Mike after our ascent from the beach.

I told him to ask the man with pliers


assembling his white-winged thing, like the bleached

bones of titanium gulls. He told Mike

about the sack, harness, carabiner.


Lauren asked, “What if the harness unties

or the sack opens?” He said, ”If you’re high

enough, the parachute inside will fly


outside, carry you down.” His friend nearby

assembling his green and white kite, cussed,

and said, “If you’re that high, you’re much too high.


You’ll need it.” Yes. Icarus, Daedalus,

Dante spiraling downward, he plummets

then climbs seven ascending stories, on gusts


of winged air, tumbling from the proud summit,

rising on prayer, meeting God with a handshake,

three circles, converging, separate,


my son, my daughter, my dream of this place,

this poem, daring , as it dives, to rise,

to carry me with it to see his face.


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