Running on Air
I recall, as I grip the handrail
and cautiously descend the back steps,
how I used to fly down the open staircase
in our two-story farmhouse,
feet skimming the treads.
IŽd have a laundry basket beneath one arm,
a child, or some such--
the index and middle fingers of my free hand
skiing down the balustered rail,
completing the circuit of energy
between polished mahogany, static
electricity, and bone.
IŽd sometimes forget to eat on hectic days,
realizing I was hungry only after the
symphonic thrumming inside my veins
had quieted to a single, pure note.