GO DAWGS!

.
One day she woke up, oddly comfortably,

in a state of being which precluded any spatial

reference to up or down, behind, ahead, around.

So boundless it felt glorious in a completely

.

unsurprising way. Seemed clear, if queer, to us

that this was how she planned to stay. But

on the subject of what seemed be her hapless

incapacity to feel or care about the pull of gravity,

.

or grasp the fundaments of left and right or east

and west, what does she say? When she attempts

(if she attempts) to stand at all, does she just teeter/

totter, sway and fall? She snidely answers that she

.

can’t recall. To comment on such tedious details!

She bewails mundanity: the insanity of its inanity.

Her eyes sail off directionless into her formless

cosmos. No one knows that she has mastered

.

almost all the arts and vagaries of locomotion utterly

unknown to planes and cars and boats. She floats.

If you float, you’re already where you’ll always be.

To which, while she’d affix the prefix “ho” to "hum,"

.

I would note grumblingly that it’s not rote to me.

I want the full regalia of the heart and soul and meat

and marginalia of the thing – bring me facts, the heat

and verse and chapter, speculations old and new

.

all through it so I can pursue it! That I can’t do it

gets my goat. Now football’s all she dotes on. (She

loves the Dawgs.) Her secret she won’t spill. Makes

me want to kill. Her supercilious gloat! I long to float.

.