Being small and neatly branched
your glanced-at limbs manufacture a pressure:
Oh shiny thing as you rearrange yourself
make me happy.
Mid-deal, water-tower in the background
a suburban species of sleet to the fore,
neither of us makes headway. There is a lot
our common creeping from the cost and strut
of machines to
our poorly developed momentum requiring
constant clinical resolve.
Where would we be without GPS?
Imperceptible slowness, manifest
in bemused muscle and patent hand signals.
The truth or perfect.
If I want to hold something nailed down
why strap on a jet-pack? In the fall
the air around me is a movie soundtrack
of unopened parachute silk.
1 December 2011