Issue 119, Summer 1991
Now I am flying a land
compressed below me, a realm,
I alight and descend to:
Long Island as it was in the cold
night of October we swept through Laurel
Hollow in our acetate gowns, pink sheened,
wearing the masks of princesses,
smelling hard plastic as we breathed.
Elastic pinned our ears; the eyeholes slid.