There's a great clear balloon inside me
so forget my innards, the muriatic acid
of my stomach, forget my heated liver,
forget how it feels to be warm. I am

loosely plotted enough to float and
drift in new directions. I am the white
paint of water. I am the sweet tensile
glass whose birthplace is the flames,

or I'm the sound of air. There's a great
clear balloon inside me so forget my
wrought iron feet, the calling of the
ground, forget it all except how it feels

to be so empty that all space is filled.