this winter parabola 05

v.

i kick against the lift-off, it not my desire. not even goads now, just the suck
& rush of vacuum: an elevator flings itself suddenly free of wire ribcage

untrammeled its electronic brain misfiring & trapped here on the ceiling as we are
i doubt you would find it appropriate if--the more unstrung, the less knotty

my syntaxes--a fervor for apology. what's the worst that could happen? so i
kicking sling a question out, grappling-hook. you let go; oh well. zip! & whiplash--

ah, chin-up, a throat-check of affection. airlocks hiss shut. in this reaction i break
out, burn my prepositional bridges here now it no longer matters where but

i remember, dimly, a brief obsession with the star-chart & the log, your dead
reckoning sexy & our mutual poring over of maps, bodies we may have traced.