The flapping folds of a balloon filled in
Brittle morning. The furnace empties in flame,
air rippling light buoyant fabrics until the
Sky opens and lifts her palm, the balloon
Resting gently on the fingers, until
Engorged fabric straightens and fills and
Then, finally taut and rouge, lifts and
Carries you like you carry bird cages
From here to there, carefully balancing to
Not swing the cage, but giving the captive bird
Flight in those confines.
©1994 Chris Abraham
