Some beating in there

                       That has bunched, and backed
                   Up on it out of moonlight, and now
Is somewhere around. You are sure that like a curving grave

     It must be able to fall
                                                and rise
                                                                and fall and that’s

        Right, and rise
                                     on your left hand
                                                                              or other

                   Or behind your back on one hand

           You don’t have and suddenly there is no limit

                       To what a man can get out of
                        His failure to see: 
                                                       this gleam

    Of air down the nape of the neck, and in it everything
           There is of flight.
                                         and nothing else,
                                                                      and it is

                            All right and all over you
                        From around
                                             as you carried

                        In yourself and there is no way
                              To nothing-but-walk—

                         No way and a bidden flurry
                                 and a half-you of air.