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My bed had never felt so sweet, goosedown
duvet keeping my feet and shoulders warm,
so anyone who yanked it off was bound

to face my wrath, except the task was borne
by a small child who gripped my blanket while
she pointed to a stile, a field of corn

or was it oats? He waits, she said, a mile
down the road. Who waits? She would not say, and
though I love suspense, always been my style

a field of corny dreams I had not planned;
and then she handed me a note that said,
the fixed point of dilapidating land

you can no longer be. It’s time instead
to choose the azimuth, the gliding part,
unburdened by an overthinking head.

Oh, what the heck? Adventure is an art
I crave, and so in goosedown wrapped, I set
upon what seemed a solitary start.

If no one came along, I wouldn’t get
upset. The world is chasing cartoon boobs,
not poetry, and pictures of their pets.

From planes we rose to lines of altitude;
some bits were shaking loose, I didn’t mind
until I turned and saw my attitudes:

a million pieces of me left behind.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013