All this choreographed
falling, a series
of dives
in search of pattern
by way of seeking
restless
fluttering seams
pirouette
a turn
the motion is set
silhouette
in front
behind the kick
step lightly
against
your partner, alone
in parts attended
by tempo
or this: you’re so clumsy
if you threw
yourself
to the ground, I’m sure
you’d miss
at least.
Memory is a kind
of fire, sad drowsy flame,
electrical current
connecting one
moment to the next,
to now. Leaves under
foot disintegrate,
grass retains its texture.
You walk into space
and create what
was only nothing
a second before.
It repeats, circular
motion around the sun
for love, planets
falling into one another.
We didn’t make it to the party.
A wrong turn prevented arrival.
We lost all sense of direction.
Something about sloppy notetaking.
No landmarks for guidance.
If we’d set out sooner, that might have made a difference.
Or could figure an alternative route.
Adding insult to injury, the brakes gave out.
Then the road became just a pile of rubble.
Shots were heard in the distance.
We knew we were getting closer.
If only we’d paid attention to that sign a while back.
As the crow flies.
Now they’re circling us.
Our car has turned into a Leviathan, stalking.
We crushed a bunny rabbit and didn’t even procure an egg.
Stick a finger in your mouth that’s which way the wind is blowing.
It’s at the top of my list.
Any further questions?
Next time we’ll hire a driver.
Or at least a bigger car.
We’re already mapping out another party.
We have to be careful with our spelling.
And I accept all responsibility.
Joshua Keiter 