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.