Fear of Flying
Nicholas Harp

Nothing's low to begin with.
Even the hectic scatter of
larvae in a Bennigan's trash bin,

bulbous molds incorporating the dying
rust red of the apple they're eating
or a fleet of centipedes clattering

beneath 57th Street like the N train:
all these humbles—all these bitty
decumbent groundlings—they lift

with the pressure of purpose.
Let what goes up be our glee
in love, the in-flight moves

our limbs propose, the ahems
that ascend before kisses,
the trampoline leap

of the secret admirer,
our arms arcing like catapults
to high the five,

to trace and wake the sky.
The air's not meant
for throttling through,

but for breathing in.