Travel Fever

I am hungry for fever swamps, misty monsoons,

Vast grasslands lit by wax-white moons.

By sailing boat or rusty car,

Take me anywhere as long as it’s far.

If I had a wish, I would grow silver wings,

And people would listen when this starbird sings.

I’d encircle the earth, trailing dream dust behind,

Too fast and too free for shadows to find.

Is the journey external or is it inside?

Is it the ending or is it the ride?

Words are like wings, a voice through the years,

Saying you’re not alone: someone knows, someone hears.