One falling through verse and time
finds so much language is gaseous.
The feeling is the end of a diving board,
and the word on the tip of one’s tongue.
Without knowing the laws of one’s heart,
the self’s expanse wonders how to dance;
yet learning the labyrinth’s passages,
antechambers to pitfalls and clouds,
because one has to fall to learn,
disintegrate to become,
one learns to hear the wall’s texture
while speaking through memories,
and a stone is shrouded in promulgations,
as one learns the informalities of eyes’
subtleties and the clear meaning of a tear
as a first drop from the gathered particles
and momentum and passion and force
leave one falling and soon questioning
whether one ever exercised agency at all.
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