MIKE WRIGHT
poet

LOST IN FLIGHT

The office tower is glass,
so cars float on its wall as ghosts,
and I’m a phantom too, my shadow split
as three figments onto the marble floor.

I imagine now that each shadow
is of a different mind.
The first stares into the sky
and mistakes it for the sea.
The second stares into the street
and mistakes it for the sky.
The third believes the passing cars
are ships full of the dead.

What do shadows know?
This glass wall is black water,
this street is a valley of lanterns,
this world is the dream of a bird
lost over the sea.
I am that bird’s shadow
being folded by the waves.