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.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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2 Responses to Implied rooms

  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.


    • pinklightsabre says:

      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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