Flying by Shawn Sturgeon

Maybe it's you and me in the street, and
we're alone finally, the two of us, with
of course, the concrete. It's so hard on us
sometimes we hardly know what we should think.
Again it's a city, a strange city,
incomplete, until we have arrived, eyes
opening. Holding hands, we lift our faces
to each breeze that sweeping down to us from

somewhere else, makes us think, This is the last
thing we may feel. Maybe, the wind that comes
from over there, that finds us here before
we go over there, brings the sense of what
it touches to our bodies, to our skins,
where finding us deeper inside them, it
shapes secret things. And now, amazingly,
it seems to have carried off our balloon. ​