Sometimes, it feels as if my arms
are reaching out to the sky
as gravity pulls everything I am
all the way down, beyond the ground
into those little spaces
inside my head
where I scold myself
and say everything is dead
where I run my hands
against jagged edges
looking for reasons to bleed
but even then, like two ropes
tight around my wrists
or better yet, two hands
with an endless grip
hope, or the glass dish on the top shelf
whatever it is, it pulls and pulls
till I flood, and those little spaces
vanish, momentarily