Gravity pants, trailing after us
as our feet fly scudding over hills and downs,
as we laugh like music on contrail staves
with notes and trills writ in cirrus clouds.
We have lost ourselves in melodic line
as we fly catching up to this last sunset
flashing back towards day, to spend it
again. Together at last, we have time
to bend and moments to live
yet another way. We defy
the rank order of calendar run.
And trailing after us: gravity pants.
We will not be going back
to put those on.
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