all those totems of light, she said
spiking along the lake
of the highway
reminded her of gravity
and how deficient we are
she said, each spike as it digs deeper
runs straight across the skin of the lake
until it ultimately dries up
in its own camouflage
made her dream of our isolation
and all those stars scattering
that darkness inside, spreading
she said, but not like the plummet of the eaglet
unnoticed from it’s regurgitated nest
the soft kleenex impact
when they bow your head with them
in that clean white room
with scratchy laminate chairs
and say, it was instant
but more like the long harsh racing pulse
that blares with tinnitus each inexorable beat
and crashes into perfect union
much the way a foxhole symphony cymbal
startles even the maddest hooah
when they say, it was just too much
and, she said, how we must devour
until the very last of the reflection
is only just an echo already decided
screaming from the tower’s rack
growing closer to home
with each turn of the wheels
and when we arrive, she says
walking through the door
all that remains
is the thin wooden frame
to help you through
and the gravity to pull you out
