Ascension Thursday.

Out of the plane's porthole at thirty thousand feet, the ascension, my seat-mate priest speaks of this morning, is almost do-able. A royally cubited arc falls like a stairwell from clouds and I could puncture the plugged muffle of voices across the aisle by chanting a Hildegarde revival, if I wanted to. Otherwise,

with my 186 milliliters of wine, I'm going to glow anyway, going to give off a cabernet aura and it's easy to feel the flow from pineal gland to root sensor where the resonant field of my subtle bodies blossom and rise - After the little while,

when they would see me no longer, I too would come back for my friends, open their roads to the presence of kingdoms within them, tell how the Second Coming will ripen even the worst of the people they know.

I would collect them into a room papered with ecru linen, let several beneficent doves loose just as the sun spangled above our pearled terra firma, just as it swivelled the fuse of its magic circle low and grazed our hair while we'd watch one another dissolve into the godspell to which we've been called - bewildered but gifted, surely delivered, surely converting to light.