I fly in the sky
and watch a strange row of houses,
that are all standing on a narrow island,
in the middle of the ocean.

The tail of the waves
licks the windows.
Only ancient men live there
who knit magic sweaters
in their spare time.
The jumpers have the following quality,
once you put it on
you become as ancient in your mind,
as the old men.
You stop worry and doubt
flowing through your mind.
You are just a delicate old man,
with agile fingers,
and a feel for
the pulling of the paddle.

Now there are none in the village.
The old men are all
off to the mercy of the ocean.
I have lost my wings
and therefore I get seated in a boat.
I feel the tail of the ocean,
lick my cheeks as I row,
into the fog of not knowing.
Alone in the craft
of the oldest of the old.

Then I wake up,
still with salt battered cheeks.
I laugh to myself,
take a passage to life,
with dreams,
as a spice in flavorless existence.