Hot muscles, jostle   
 tied to my own with string
 like beating beans.
 We watch the skyline change,
 watch the light
 recede behind lined-paper-clouds
 I can't reach or write on.
 We wouldn't have wheels or a kite
 or a man,
 clinging with gloved hands and
 for a moment, raised off the ground.
 A gash in the dead-wood sky 
 that can't be held
 by just one man.
 People, black sticks in the half light of the common land
 I see them running, falling,
 standing-stock-still against the white
 like it is not enough just to run.
 You point to them with cold fingers
 that haven't yet been born
 and I think of them often
 wrapped in my own.
 Cigarette ends grow
 from the roots of lost aeroplanes
 now grounded
 their arching steel backs crushed
 under happy joggers
 and happiness and I think
 as I hold you firm to my chest
 one day I shall buy some rollerblades
 and we shall glide seamlessly in circles 
 on this old runway.

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