The underplaces, that element—
interminable downpull,
gravid with the ever-cleaving egg,
sluggishly tugging,
egg of gravity itself.
A natural law it may be
but I have wearied of it.
Let there be wings for once.
Let there be lift-off.
A whirlybird above the spires
or a marvelous goose,
cirrus below
and then—
weightlessness.
Buoyancy.
Abeyancy.
Light being
in a currency of light beings,
quantum
among quanta—
wavery of—
light.
But it’s not my place, is it?
Let there be downpull.
Siphon me home to Earth.