In an hour
I compose the afterlife,
twirling ladies
and cities up from fire.
One occasion spoke volumes
to me,
aching and ticking and
waiting, but I’ll do it.
I’ll do it.
My mother smiles when I tell her
Baryshnikov still dances.
The high life
still electric in his pirouettes,
just as happy twisting in the dark,
so why shouldn’t I settle
for night vision?
In a day
I string up the heavens with twine
straight through my bedroom ceiling.
No roof to cave in,
just the universe spiraling further out.
The last resistance,
stretching its arms to catch me,
but I’ll do it.
I’ll do it.
