Featured: The Waft Away World

The Waft Away World

Robert Vivian

And how it’s floating away even now, ever lofting, ever praiseworthy and I waft with it in these words, spirit drifting, spirit soaring and can we waft, you and I, can we seek the waft away world together arm in arm or dust motes of these human longings apart and drifting, floating toward the ceiling or suspended mid-sigh near the caverns of our open mouths and here is a feather weight world and nothing to hold us down and gravity is defeated in notes of song or a poem chanted from the depths of our innards and waft away world and disposable razors and recycled milk cartons with the pictures of missing children stamped on their sides in stark dot matrix deprived of wafting and taken away and where is the wafting for them, where are the cries of lamentation all the more precious dear the waft away world and scuttle of leaves across the chiseled chin of a curb and all of my life, dear Horatio, dear Martha and St. Therese, I dreamed of wafting and would wake in the middle of the night whispering “Waft for me, waft for me,” not knowing what I was saying or to whom but waft, waft, waft for me, for all of us and show that it can be done and that our souls are waft worthy, the arches of our naked feet leaping in mid-stride over a watering can and to neighbors and strangers I say, Waft with me, to terrorists and lumber barons, CEOs of ruthless corporations waft with me for the waft away world is revolutionary, epistolary with letters flying and sashaying through the air and hardly making a sound and give me a wand and I will make wafting visible like a conductor standing over an orchestra pit with my eyes closed as I wend and waft with my wand, with a swoon and a wobble as we make music together toward the waft away world, O, my daughter never to be born called Wanda and where is St. Wenceslaus and where is Willie Mays making a basket catch near the center field wall then wheeling and throwing home and we wave and we cheer the staggering beauty and courage, running all of us for our lives after a fly ball, a drifting feather that dare not, dare not touch the ground in the waft away world and the tears wet on our cheeks washing us as we raise our eyes to the dog star light years away and the wafting constellations, the wafting words, the signature that is starlight and our inmost names.

 

Robert Vivian is the author of The Tall Grass Trilogy, Water And Abandon, and two books of meditative essays, Cold Snap As Yearning and The Least Cricket Of Evening. His next book–a collection of prose poems called Mystery My Country–will be published in 2016.