The others talk, in the afternoons, of falling-
through dreams and dosages,
into the LA-Z-Boys
of their spines,
down hallways opening like one long throat.
My roommate lifts his leg
and drops it, lifts and drops.
The end'll be like that, he says, without the bed
to catch you.
I tell them
falling brought me here.
The scant platforms fell away, and I dropped
into my world's tessellation, small and far
from god. I tell them I was a doctor once,
and know the fire has left their fingertips.
Look outside, I say, the toothless flowers
waggle their arms for you.
do not swallow them. Today, I push
my nose deep behind their lips
like a lion tamer.
Tomorrow, I place my ear
to a drain pipe and commiserate
with water. Like turtles, we can skulk
the earth long after our shells have gone.
But when they die, the falling stops.
I can only dive into the deepest pond
wearing a belt of wrenches-
where no clock
or song can follow.
There, I'll meet the algae, coalesce with rocks
in their incredible dimensions. I'll rest,
knowing I can finally sink no deeper.
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