I cut the anchor
that keeps making me fall
and little did I know
that f
a
l
l
i
n
g

also feels like
f                     o                 in
                         l                   at                       g

Paved roads of cars that roam
Are sure to grow weary on my bones.
And there’s a high hill close to home
Onto which I seldom venture alone.
How I recall those many days of yore
When we’d go fresh out in the morn;
And up that hill now far across the globe
Would stare for short eons into the fog.

the air parts like the Red Sea
so a spaceship can soar,
even as the world
drags it down.

she breaks orbit
to release the earth.
she is now free to float,
and the universe guides her.

My body is sixty percent water,
and I attempt to float with the oil,
coasting with closed eyes and mind.
But I am sinking to the bottom of the glass,
where cold, hard rocks bruise with the truth,
and I press my hands to the glass to keep myself standing.

Although the rocks ground me,
the submersion chokes my throat.
If I crack the glass with my bare hands,
the acid-laced arrows will lacerate my back,
and I will be a trembling target fading into mist.
but the gentle breeze will greet me with open arms.