By Mike O’Connell

i have flung myself off of
mighty mountains, skimming
tree tops, teasing stones
outcroppings, just to get a little
air time. sometimes, there’s a
city, down below, rushing up to
confuse my soaring, falling,
with booby traps, and snags
with reaching arms. in others,
there is a valley, vast, intersected
by overgrown roads, which all
arrive at the same time, but
never in the same place.
one of the houses there,
is familiar, beckoning, as if
there were a family inside,
safe from the confusion of
searching for a home, a place to be,
to rest and know,
everything’s going to be ok.
i fly there often, but can never get back,