cujus est solum ejus usque ad coelum
                               —13th C. common law


Before man dreamed up the flying machine
                   we owned the air as far above our land


        as we could imagine. Up to infinity. Down
to hell. Because air, in the days of tangible


property, was nothing. No foot had emerged 
                  from a lander onto the foreign terrain


        of the moon. No satellites passing over the hostas. 
The act of a horse, law says,


reaching his head into an adjoining field
                and biting another horse is a trespass. 


        A word, freed from the lips, is in the air
a trespass. Now, in a country divvying up


the sky, unmanned machines will be given
                innocent passage. People will walk around


 whispering dominium as if to control at least 
their breath. So, before the space of utterance


is duly regulated, before the 83 feet of air
                we own above our heads begins to collapse,


        this: I love you from the depth of the earth
to the height of the sky. I love you upon


land immovable, soil open to exploitation
                  by all. I am for your unreasonable use alone.


And, when the winged gods finally interfere,
with your possessor’s enjoyment, to an


indefinite extent, I’ll remember a time when
                men were the ones doing harm with


        their own hands. I’ll remember the words I once
had to give to you, on the porch, in private.