Alone,
this sheet
of debris
falling in
black space
all around
everything
fallen
in situ
such so
we cannot know

how high were we before –
before descent
was a go…

how long ago?

before the pain
that precipitates
this – our longing for torpor

for deep sleep

at the edge
where existence ends
will we ricochet
and ascend?

Chagall 2019