Grief is sometimes a pair
of oversized trousers.
I put my legs in and all air
presses upward.
For one whole season I
remain untethered,
clutching that weary space
between dereliction and circumference.
Curves and edges on walls
are the first to vanish,
then gravity and all points of repair,
beat by beat leave the soft
shrieks of anxiety,
wound, courage, impatience,
and finally dissolve the music of
the earth and its living crew,
the grace of atoms.
The outside collapses on the inside.
Neither ground,
nor any trace of departure,
there is only a long
bewildered orbiting.
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash




