FLIGHT OF FANTASY

The name's Duane, a recovering romantic.

And this sonnet's microcosmically me: intelligent 

to an extent yet unutterably inelegant

This twisted yogapoetry falls far shy of the tantric.

But the doomed, pure gooneybird still tries liftoff,

flopping/jerking incongruous across your Canada Shield,

this tropical spirit beating its blunt clumsy appeal

against your ever-stubborn distaff.

Frantic wings pump and flutter.

Their antics, doubtless, amuse: as awkward

as the balance between meanly accurate

and the motley's drooling stutter.

The question, then: Can nature's clownbird conquer the runway

and slide into sky’s butterandhoney?

--Duane Vorhees