The Fall

She’s been throwing herself
                                              down stairs, again

losing her grip as if
                                she didn’t mean to
hold her sensibilities
                                  so tight or find such liability
in flight or try the dreamer’s
                                               knack of stepping over
sleep as if
               nothing lay between
this life and the next
                                 sharp corner and over
and over she watches 
                                   mind switch off and

body’s moving

                         blank eyes thankfully unseeing

                                                                                 HOW IT
                                                                                            FELT ON
                                                                                                       EVERY SHARP
                                                                                                                            AND ANGLED
                                                                                                                                                  STEP.

ABOUT THIS POEM: I wrote this poem after a few episodes of falling down while “dream walking” — see my post “A Time to be Born, A Time to Die” (Turn, Turn, Turn series, second article.)