Do they mean magic, the flying carpet
speeding to our other lives?
They have their Indians confused, then,
India confused with Persia, reality with story,
also my problem, as I drift summer’s
green fantasias, documenting.
I need what the late sun is alert to,
not a heavily pentametered anguish
drawing sense from station to station,
but tender proof that flight is real,
and my hand holds the line that chiefs
the soaring fabric, and keeps me on it