If I had a hundred mathematically-large-enough
I’d cram the strings together
in a woven vest and rise higher
through rain-gilded cloudscape.
I’d subsist on vapors, or maybe on sunrise ambrosia –
till atmospheric pressure (or somesuch scientific phenomenon)
popped just one
Then I’d drop more rapidly than I rose:
the most obsequious, impotent adherent to Gravity and his unalterable law.
But really, I have to admit
-as I revisit clouds and ambrosia rays and treetops drawing nearer-
I was never free
I am right back where I started,
amidst 99 deflated spheres of red.