When I fall from orbit
forty minutes before
the sounding alarm,
no one tracks my plummet
to the toilet or helps search
the ship of my body
for the eject button
returning me to that trajectory
where I was
circling my pillow
in a dream of birds
or angels or some winged
revelation revolving
the heavens, now lost
in this plunge
to flesh.
I try to recover
atmosphere by resting
against the headboard, releasing
my breath in slow bursts—
easing mind and body
into a memory of traffic
the circumnavigation
to the grocery store, the unplanned
path running past
a blue painted wall
where a flock of shadows
danced briefly then lifted
from sight—
my heart moon-shot
with rocket fuel
and light.
Copyright © 2022 by AJ Saur, from Of Bone and Pinion
(Murmuration Press)
Eighth Day Aches 