Tell Me: Does the Ground Always Catch You?

He was the desultory type—
the kind to leap first and then check for the parachute.

He said it was surrendering to the sky—

(I always thought it was a strange way to pretend
at suicide)

falling with stolen breath and he would tumble
and tumble, a smile on his face at the importune wind
desperately trying to slither—

(past him, or through him, or in him, or beyond him?)

desperate, as if the wind itself was rushing to the ground.
Because it was—
ripped from its sky-bound moorings and pulled
like the trailing wings of a falcon in dive—

his face pointed like the beak and talons,
like the ground itself was his prey.

(Because it was. His hunger was deep and almost
unknown, even to him. He just knew he needed to taste
the ground, to have dirt in his teeth.)

But his face was easy—
relaxed with eyes closed, not against the scratching
of the desperate wind,

but with the ease of someone that knew
the answer.

Because like the falcon,
he had weaned himself from gravity.


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