Balloonist:

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.