Sketch of a Red Balloon
by Lynsey Jenkins
Things I brushed I cannot know
except in distant speech:
dressing shapes where they correspond
to doubt, bereft this paper’s reach,
itself treading quiet altitude, perhaps untrue
to your sense of things. We seek what fades,
not stays away, yet pen fades
to blue on blue. I can’t say what pulled it through
desert nights, or what remains
to tell a story you half-knew.
Look for mountains in its shade.
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