by William Aarnes
after Ingar Christensen
blown-up balloons exist
and celebrations exists
with their popping party balloons,
adults as caught up
in the popping
as their kids
and helium-filled balloons exist
and the joyful, worried disappointment
of their so quickly drifting away
from outstretched hands
to land somewhere they shouldn’t
after they burst
and hot-air balloons exist,
colorful hot-air balloons
for the risky thrill
of being above it all,
of looking down at the countryside,
the treetops, the houses, the cars,
the people puny as can be,
hot-air balloon rides exist
for that glorious, if fleeting feeling
that everything’s yours
as far as the eye can see
weather balloons exist,
meteorologists all around the world
working together,
twice a day releasing balloons,
balloons that rise twenty miles high
before they burst, their radiosondes
parachuting back to earth
with all their measurements
of how cold and windy it is
up above
and spy balloons exist,
because people don’t get along
spy balloons exist,
keeping track
of whatever nefarious planning
and digging and building
and moving around
must be going on
and nation-states exist,
nation-states puffed-up
and thin-skinned as balloons
William Aarnes lives in New York. He admires—and thinks everyone should read and reread—Susanna Nied's translation of Ingar Christensen's alphabet.
