The Outer Space

When you fall it’s in one direction—always down
The haphazard spiral someone drew in a notebook margin
The neon arrow that blinks and sparks and catches fire
It’s all meant to illustrate your trajectory
Where you’re going there’s no handspun moon
No ticking clock or bomb
What you brace yourself against, you can’t take with you
The railings, the wooden ladders, the shoulders of
Sturdier men than you
There’s great speculation about where you end
But the debates are short-lived conversations
Between poker games—the next hand

In space where your echo carries just as much weight
As your hands and your bottles
Imagine nothing is italicized and emphasized
And wrapped in heavy gestures
There is nothing you can say that will
Carry you to the next level
By now, you’ve missed an entire war
There are people above or beneath you
who fought for and lost things
That you can’t even imagine exist in real life

When you’re falling through a black hole
The only thing you can love are shapes
The things you pass never get closer or further away
Glowing lights contain their bursting in compact rectangles
Nothing orbits anything anymore; no lullaby
Physics is your crying mother and you owe her again

Again and again. It’s time for a new hole
On a golf course, from a bullet
It stopped mattering to you a long time ago
You’ve lost that patient sense of narrative arc
The paper airplane that got confiscated and when it was returned
You didn’t remember it at all
It’s funny how ‘falling’ sounds like an accident
You were pushed, dropped, flicked like the spark from a flame
You think there is a force throwing its weight at you
Again and again. Like a pillow case filled with hard-nosed books
And people celebrating their traditions of letting you down.

When you’re falling through a black hole
You got there because you hi-jacked the ship
You propelled it into nowhere and
You got there as fast as you could.


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