Flying, Falling


This strange landscape, these grey hills,
whisper of a promise forgotten.


Lit more by stars than
pregnant moon,
a child could wish
to walk their valleys,
even dance.


I console myself blindly —
pleasure can subsume
the ache
for a sharper biting joy
that shrieks muffled within.


Turn up the lights, draw close the covers,
stir a cup of chocolate in a grey morning.


It is not a bad ending.



M.A. Mohanraj
Somewhere in the air,
between Chicago and S.F.
February 28, 1997