Today's poem is by Elaine Bleakney
What I didn't know was where the balloonists met. Long streams,
fabric sacs, limp along the depth. As blue,
the valley heated. What I didn't know was all and it was
feeling. Cold, perplexed. As we drove into their clearing. How halo
hole. How glory, fire. How to be a wave's undress
then circus stunned into its tent. Air in tracts, repeated to ringing.
We watched them walk into the baskets. Champagne in hand. Close
the latch. Still cold inside the Datsun bed where the runnels, lined with blankets,
manufactured keeping. Our heads back. Basketeers and their insistent
waving. Lifting. Some guide knowing what to do in steering. The chaser trucks
igniting chasing. Quartz in the gravel. Lightward. Leaning.
Then I knew we were not rich. Not for one kind of leaving.
Copyright © 2010 Elaine Bleakney All rights reserved
from Court Green
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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