threats of potential permanent disorientation
agency of manufactured fictional living
she talks with her hands–as if the gestures
will make him understand

looking down–walking another long corridor
transporting my running heart
a mind full of agitated leaves
Autumn of a place I no longer live

dusk turned the clouds rolling black
Is it magnetism or gravitational pull?
when my inertial frame of reference sparks
I decide when it will hurt

in the right space
everything about me is soft and yielding.

originally published 7/28/09