I’m hurling across the sky, 40,000 feet high or so, reading William Carlos Williams as the clouds spread like pastures below, uncountable sheep tumbling above mountains – “red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens” - jk/ I’m not reading Williams Carlos Williams. I could be reading but I also don’t want to read: feels like effort. Gah, I’m exhausted, trying to relax at 40,000 feet high or so, contemplating the cabin’s oxygen levels, digesting Biscoff cookies – ingredients: wheat flour, sugar, soybean oil, sunflower oil, canola oil, palm oil, brown sugar syrup, sodium bicarbonate, soy flour, hydrogen peroxide, salt, cinnamon. jk/ hydrogen peroxide is not an ingredient. I know what you’re thinking: “Is this really poetry, Dandylionheartedness?” The answer: why not transmute a little banality into something playful? Any moment can be hewn with lyric, a smattering of light. There’s a legendary poet I’m not reading who knows this well. Poetry ain’t words or sounds. Nope. The biproduct of hydrogen peroxide is water and oxygen.