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.