The Body, Not Falling
       

Wonders how gravity even exists,
when rising seems natural,
when breathing pulls it
above the syllables of a sleeping lover.
      The body, not falling,
still delicate, shatterable,
a twist of orange
in thin, blown glass.
      It knows the carriages
of circulation, heart and lungs,
expanding, collapsing,
pure rhythms.
      The body thinks
of air on the neck,
just brushing the hair,
exhalations of another,
falling and not falling.

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