I will show you a gallery of air
with washed ashore paintings
through which we can all climb.
A few steps, a star viewed
from atop a high-rise mountain, light
that reaches faraway squares,
their men in ice-cubes.
Set music to mind, can you hear
that sound of continuous flight?
Words, murmurs, paint are all there
to rub the burning ice.
We are near, here, in this gallery.
We are lights in kaleidoscopes of air.