|
Still damp with
dew from the moment
just
before, still
blue
as
morning's
breeze,
the first
sliver--a
splinter, really--
falls
from the first window,
falls
point down whetting
itself against the friction gravity provides.
Who could've foreseen it slipping through
such
sparkling air? How
sunlight--so
bright,
so
luscious this
morning--slipped
through it, too,
then
out, and fanned:
a
smear of colors
as minute as momentary in freefall?
Who could've foreseen how easily velocity
and
grace merge?
How
easily
the
moment just after
would
become
occupied
territory:
a blur of air, a swarm of bodiless wings?
As the splinter falls, History jabs ice picks
into
its ears, Biology
slits
its wrists, and Religion
shoves
a fist down its
throat.
But the glass sliver
tows
the line Physics
dictates
and falls, falls
all the way down into an eye of the beholder.
|