That Night
By Max Winter
I saw something adrift.
It looked like a man to me.
It could have made my troubles disappear.
It made me ask questions I would not have asked.
It weaved through the clouds like a splinter.
Trailing nothing but the suggestions.
No words light enough to describe it.
I called you to the roof.
I showed you the shape of the new music.
You built a dome to catch the beats.
The man turned sideways to face us.
He seemed to wave, but it might have been the air.
I was not standing on Earth.
But I still believed in certain freedoms.
And my mind was no smaller.
Yet the world grew no smaller,
as much room as I gave it.
That evening, as I stood in the street,
watching a thing
trying for humanity,
flying short.
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