Issue 67, Fall 1976
With a feeling of splendid contempt and with a strange loving longing
In my eyes, I look up at the helicopter that was lately my home
Getting smaller and smaller in the sky, and I know this is
A routine enough condition for a veteran parachutist like myself.
Yet always, in those free-falling fast and furious seconds
Before the chute blossoms open, turning me into a human umbrella
Or, as I sometimes like to think, an uprooted tree with a cloud