The marshes near Alviso. That patient wind
ripples the reeds. I feel unease--war's come,
and we're exposed as we stroll along.
Workmates urge "Stay low". They declare

humans can't fly--it's science. Even before
snipers nipped the eagers. "Chris, we know
you flew, but then you had wings, or long
coatsleeves, or a cape to catch the wind--

"you can't just levitate." "You're wrong!"
I snap, angry--since I doubt too. Flap
skinny arms and into the wind I leap,
knowing I can't really fly; just hope

I can hover enough to annoy. The Age
of Miracles is dead, but maybe not the Age
of Petty Gravitic Infractions. And I float
about their skeptic heads--and though

privately I share their doubt, I thrash hard--
defy--rise one more yard. And yet I know
my place. Grass ceiling, sealing. I must
be exhausted! Bogged in their belief,

yet memory-lofted--tugged as taffy--I
waffle and wobble, now ten feet high,
telling myself I'm drained. When I
might soar more. But people can't fly.