Wednesday, October 9, 2024

DERRING-DO

If you're 
reading this, 
you're plummeting

swiftly 
through midair;

each word is
a cloud 

which first sounds 
like a mattress

til you blow 
right through it 
without slowing down.

But the good 
news is

there's a turn
at the end 

which is rushing up
to center itself
under your fall—

not with 
the pillow
of relevant info, 

but the small 
silk-soft 
pleasure 

of knowing 
in an instant 

that a poem
can support you
after all.