The Gust

In the mind
there comes a moment
when shadows fall back like men
from a gust of something,
when the brain is light
as a fly on your wrist—

and in the jeweled eyes of that fly
you see your own six-legged self
white-shoed, dancing,
being on parade—
the gold tuba grown from your lips:
Um-pah-dah cha-cha huuh!

Meet me there.