Not a Breakfast Poem

When I swing,
I point my toes up,
Flying easily.
The moon casts a realm of dubious luminosity.
The night, thick and heavy,
I taste in the air,
Swallow on my tongue,
Engulf in my mouth.
On the incline, I stretch my legs,
And, letting go, soar up past the tall tree,
Above, beyond,
Reaching the ladder towards the moon.
I am by the church in Kilchberg, waiting for the bus,
walking down the path to Denner,
vanishing somewhere among the crickets and hedgehogs.
I am behind Schwelle, aged 7,
playing chase with tiny humans, unwilling cats,
Before we knew about the flies in the pizza.
In my thoughts, this place does not bind me.
But it is hot and I grow queasy feeling too much without boarders.
The buildings around me grow haunted,
Lightning charges everything, noiselessly
And I sink off into a slumber of reality, or something more ethereal
Like climbing trees, swinging off long chains, sprouting wings of pixie's leaves
in the woods over the hills late past sunset

-BHN