If only we could all fly through the air
with the greatest of ease like the man
on the flying trapeze who always has
has his obsidian eyes on the prize.
He’s earned more than enough money
for a loving partner who feels at home
between his knees—he only has one worry
when he’s drunk on perfumed air in flight:
If he misses the catch of his partner
and ends up with a bouquet of roses
in his mouth, he will spiral down on the ground
to a drumroll that drowns out screams in the audience—
he learns too late there’s no safety net in this game.
All he can do is return to the splendor of an underground eternity
of seismic waves in the magnetic fields down in the earth’s core.