Z.
Running down the stairwell in the garden,
I divide the steps by three, until my
foot catches the edge, wet with rain, and my
frame, flung forward by its own momentum,
leans into the night as if reaching
for something I didn’t know I
wanted. Not the moon. No. Not the sky,
suspended and limitless. Not even
the tulips standing on their stems
(their petals cup the air).
But in the streetlamp’s circle of light, I land
among them, broken.
My body can’t contain
itself, as blood burgeons in my hands.
Blas Falconer
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