Sitting on a hole in the sky – she flies – my mind drapes arms reaching –
up the chute and down the even temperament; look below, the flow, the flow, the flow – the numb-horsed tropia – while the ringmaster whips.
Catch the flow, catch the flow – downward sweat drips; crack, crack, crack.
The eyes cupped by hands, the heads bent low – fly me, fly, fly.
Sitting in the hole, not knowing rush or down – seized parts too gone
for this backward movemaker.
2011 Barry Comer