The air inside the air
kept getting smaller
as we flew up,
waving away the inches
we had been living in,
the faithful trees
that had watched over us.
Inside the gondola,
sound became a gesture.
A lion on the wind
and then its skeleton
howling dyslexic gusts.
The light bent swans
between the clouds,
nasty, angry swans
we could almost feel
fucking up our ethos.
It reminded me
of when we stole the chicken,
how it kept so quiet
we dropped the knife
and just stood there,
stuck around the pentagram
like dumbfounded policemen
who’ve uncovered
a whole town of nudists.
I mean, yes, we were serious,
but really we knew
there was something wrong,
if not with us
then perhaps with the system
that trained us in Peace Studies
before leaving us bored
and underemployed in a summer village.
After a few hours,
we drank the champagne
tradition dictates
every balloonist must carry
to prove to suspicious farmers
they are not aliens.
We ate the éclairs
we brought to remember
how good the earth is
when the right elements
are placed together,
how totally amazing
that from dirt
grow proud tomatoes,
and countless ideas from our days:
the travel-size ghosts,
the sandbags we throw
to help us get away.