Alphabet City

The arc of my float,
over the village,
a shallow parabola,
steady, deliberate
Pan on a taut guide,
level with those in the loge.

No one flies like this these days,
not like this anymore;
jump, trust, merge into updraft,
simple flip-gravity, easier to float
if you close your eyes.

How I love ascension,
my body carved, massages the flight:
Victory winged at Samothrace.

I’m young and crazed,
a romantic in the gondola, a pied balloon,
throwing out ballast to rise!

At night, low altitude,
I cherish the sight, your fires,
you hovered in the round,
my vantage point just above
tops of pines that surround.

Your laughter draws me,
I lower the flame,
I settle down,
pilot to a spot
right about where you sit.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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