Falling Into Theory
I have not yet assigned a cause to gravity. —Isaac Newton
Medieval physicists thought gravity
was love. They catalogued it attraction.
Gravitational attraction. That every entity,
man and thing, man-thing, just drafty fractions
and, loosed, would seek the earth their own.
Oh, how the spoon rushes into the arms
Of the beloved when fumbled. All seeking home.
All fall down. Hold us, great mass, from every harm.
A step, a stumble, down, ow, a knee,
an elbow, pow, a pop, a ligament,
a slippery staircase of concrete and steel,
unforgiving as an old lover’s heart
that you busted up pretty good, yeah you.
And now you’re gravity’s fool falling for true.
Editor’s Note: This sonnet’s complex repetitions lull the reader into its mysteries.