I guess we’re somewhere in the smear of things
right between the eyes and ears and legs of things
upside down screaming on the edge of wings
so neatly clipped

in narrow fissure chasms squeeze us tight
but we emerge in full span soaring high
too soon too fast, my love, too late too sad, my heart
breaks that this is less than fleeting love

gliders – everywhere clouds and biplanes
they hang there right above our heads
and do you know, the wild blue balloons do too?

Chagall 2015