Dreams of flying, of falling

Gorges, mountains
Openly beg for access,
The carefree, unhinged wheel
Sits unbeckoned, waiting,

Can it be these glimpsed echos,
These half-chewed bits of life
Are what there is?

Now that I think of it,
It’s been a kind of dream paralysis,
A fear of waking, flying,

There were times
It seemed possible to swallow it whole.

No, that wasn’t it.

Have I missed much?
How much would I have missed
Had I grasped at opportunity?

With luck,
We’re billiard balls.
Some rational vector.
Some reasonable

What part of me
Is indescribable?

We always thought we knew.
Is our vision better now,
Or just our opinion of it?

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