If I Were a Poet

I’ve long had a dream of leaving this place:
To spiral upward like a barber pole out of control.
I would even board the first passing tornado
if that would grant me immortality among
the constellations.
Persus, you lucky jerk.

Curse the dirt,
This substance
that sucks at our feet with gravity,
at our minds with boredom.

My dream never flies higher than my body,
But in my dream there are vapor trails at dawn:
Footprints in the sky,
High, but not high enough for me.