our hands aloft, we fear chance of not flying
as men who flew before us want us behind,
who are in a jumbo stomach relishing acids
making them light like thin December mist.

we are still on the earth anxious for victory
of avoiding the bumps in our tiny stomachs
and the consequent high tension wires in us
snapping in their lightning flash, a big bang.

we are looking for our paper to fly like them
who went before and are a dead-weight still.
on the earth we are hanging on to the hangar
counting Siberian bird feet into our swamps.