I get up, and nothing gets me down.
My feet float briefly in shoes, then lose altitude, heels cratering. If I could pinwheel my legs into propellers, maybe I could stay above the concrete, dream the abstract swish—score. Or flicker and flip as the rope flogs air, whips me into cream. Or levitate to unsour grapes, high on vines. Or compel myself up walls, over stair rails, bare sailing between roofs, across gaping cityscape, loud soundtrack—a hero or villain, chased. Maybe, though, it’s enough to rebound softly from hard conclusions, to see someone else stalled, in need of my assumptions, and reach the wires over, clamp small power to small power—sparks— then the wished-for roar of something dead restarting.