Gravity.
Daylight takes hold with an inevitable spin.
My curtains are the producers of a linear shadow puppet show. They’re not interested in nuance. Only the the telephone wires and the arc of the sun electrify them.
Laundry, trips to the post office and farmers market. These are the strange, simple tasks that bring back the grounded rhythms of a functioning human being. The gear shift, the car radio, the brake. As a cop passes by, I slyly slip my seatbelt on and move along.
Sometimes it seems like loftiness is both the goal and the wrong pole — as if the uncomfortable push beyond presumption is going lead further than the mortal life that I’m lucky to be living.
Somewhere below the satellites orbiting in empty space is an atmospheric pressure that suits my transparent skin.
I might already even be here.