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Of course it’s magic: when the airplane leaves
the laws of gravity, that slight shifting

in my awareness. The sky opens, heaves
us up into it. Just then everything

flows, a tingling in my teeth and toes —-
vodka, cocaine, even the Mile High Club;

it all might happen. Like magic that shows
us how to escape. Millay’s candle stub

sputtered, burned out at both ends. My passion
seems a small thing up here, too. The sky rifts

around us. It’s not the will, it’s the means;
miles high in a box indifferent to sin,

to lewd moods, to all of desire’s gifts.
This realm of celibate gods, sexless fiends.