Implied rooms

There is no part of me I can leave without seeing myself still,
as I get smaller on the shore.
I move about my space wondering at the edges as a toddler fans the border,
at what keeps us inside.

And it is in the dreams I sometimes feel what it must be
to fly, when there is no outside to my body
but the air that gives the balloon its shape,
the air that makes a lifeless thing expand to become wondrous,
that can find the least hospitable place to bed down
and call home, anywhere not taken,
a hiding place where we can settle in and come out
each day before it’s night,
that we can close our eyes, forget ourselves, fly.

Categories: poetry

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

2 replies

  1. Nice work, Bill. Like this phrasing “the air that gives the balloon its shape” and really like the title. It feels like there a lot of places to go with it.


    • Thank you Michelle! It’s funny, I had a title – and what I thought was a different poem – in my head when I fell asleep, could have sworn I’d be able to remember it in the morning when I got up, but something different came out. You’re right, more places to go with it maybe. I’m happy you liked the title; I did too.

      Had a great session this morning on the memoir, the best one yet. Enjoy your day and I hope the rewrite of chapters 1 and 2 went well for you earlier this week. – Bill


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