In the bright blue air
balloon,
filled with alleyways
and square niches
where the city escaped
its own shadows,
in a nest of rope and
wooden intent
I wrestled with the
wind.
Its billowing mass
obscured
the truth that flight
is a fancy best left to birds -
the basket no true
cave, never a rest
but a refuge that
lingered until reality
ground me again.
Birds fly whenever
they wish,
lift and spread, leap,
find the places where the wind
does battle with its
inner voices,
and travel.
I must always land and
walk for weeks,
my eyes littered with
the sights
of men as ants and
tress as small
as toothpicks, so that
conversation is difficult –
I always want to shout.
The memory
of the sound wind
makes when the earth
falls far away
separates me from
those who would, perhaps,
love me if they could.
On Sundays, I spread
the balloon, limp
as a freshly killed
dove,
and then watch the
inflation,
feel the lurch -
I am away again; my
mind desperate
not to let the
knowledge of the landing
back in.
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