Parachute

we ran.
plastic bags
in hand, caught
wind.

billowed
like sails, parachutes
and our feet skimmed
the hard ground –
silhouettes seemed to
take flight

if for only moments
each. short seconds timed.

silhouettes of
plastic bags that passed
for parachutes, sails – with
each clear sky we prayed
for gales, prayed for storm
winds that would grant
us flight, leave us
airborne

to see the stars close up,
reach the treetops,
observe the earth like birds
as dawn broke.

Parachute

we have gone steady on
street corners since.
since we woke up 17.
since we woke up 25.
since we woke up 30
with lives defined by
the chaos of routine,
jobs and families we
find ourselves
fragile for.

we find motionless
plastic bags in oceans we imagine
the size of Hyde Park,
blue like skies – i am
devoted to notions of
fifth-grade flight. transfixed
by tropes and tokens when
i see plastic bags
free.

the quiet inspection
of wind gathers, like
a collective sigh.