Each time I turn over my shoulder
and plummet toward Earth
I do not recall the first time I’ve done this,
that I have left for a while.
But I do it relentlessly,
upwardly joining something to learn how to fall away
back into myself.
When I meet the sky
the first word to mind is murder,
not as if I’ve performed it
but have caused it by my leaving.
I soar vertically from that,
such going and going between perfection and imperfection,
and so often,
that to fall now is to exhaust–
is to blink like a slow decade
just to hit the hard clay again and not die
but stand up, startled, and walk.