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,
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.
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