From the Fishouse

Having fallen so far so very slowly
demonstrating a type of patience only suicides have,
a sacramental, steady, plodding fall, but also
an aerating whoosh like no other—
without precedent, the floor by floor descent—
at bottom, do I find a bed? I do not.
Coming too close to you, I've cultured desires
to dive and found for them no home.
I'm falling toward your desert cities—yes,
sometimes I don't ask how empty it is,
if the cabin injects its electroluminescence
while I, as passenger, swoon from airplane window
seat to continent of cloud. I find trampolines,
the cotton candy, will o' wispy mountains and mesas
of you predictably disperse all the while
I'm falling, to not even fog, to vapor of less
specificity. I’m inside this rippling machine.
This rippling machine’s my chiffon scarf
and I its Isadora.