Pulp

"like an entombing eye watering a pulpy orange light..."

A grim orange celestial
sets over Atlanta
like an entombing eye
watering a pulpy orange light
over lit wick candles of houses
and birthmarks aglow in large masses.

The orange deepens,
hiding its color from the
pubescent tree tops and
places uninhabited.

Flashes— life in my mind—
within the cabin,
feeling my body tensing,
pretending I’m within
A human’s inherent nature
to suspend in air,
to rise,
to fall,
to dance with inaction.

How high I am
in an uncomfortable comfort,
fearing gravity may long for our
touch, may break this dance—
a jealous lover—
may press my lips to the ground 
through 30,000 feet of
pressure of velocity of care.

A dreadful descent,
pictured through windows I stare:
would life be different,
had I stumbled mid-song and
my foot had ensnared.

Would life be unfair?
For one dancer, not all would resent.
They’d call on another partner,
for in the footprints of history--
in footprints I too stepped--
for not all it would be harder.

Now darkness blinks back at me,
the light of its eyes from
every mortal creature
on the ground dancing, present.

Though my years but a flicker,
to shine at all,
to tap my feet to the rhythm,
the art to have lived.