While in a distance,
—though, admittedly, not fearfully—
I toured and toured—not fitfully—
while considering, fruitlessly, a mind full of gravity.
Or gravitas.
Where was I, after all?
The spaces that define my daily existence …
Louder than this one? More constraining?
It doesn’t seem so after the sun has burnt the hilltops
and the air has stopped arguing
and the clovers have pleaded the Fifth.
I’m not interested in gravity.
It feels like too much food after a day of hunger.
I want to belch it away.
I don’t need food. Not just yet, anyway.
I need to feed—the sun, the hilltops, the clovers …
even the air, spiteful as it can sometimes be.
A mind full of gravity makes me mindful of gravity.
I don’t want to be. I’ve already told you that.
A shake, a wisp of delight, or the TV’s ghostly glow:
those stories don’t need it either. They seek higher heights
and darker depths. A courteous smile is ample enough, thank you.
I said thank you!
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From Fractalverse: Volume Three
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Photography: A Mile High by yours truly
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