Gravity waiting
In regimented intervals, the landscape etched itself in the window glass. She sat in the train seat, sunk back in plush red. A spotty man, with the spectacles of an architect, wandered in awkward diagnosis of the train car. Sunlight lay mangled in her eyelashes. The train inched over a green caked ridge and the cars writhed like a headless snake.
Think back to it - when she swirled like iron filings. The crowd held out elephant trunks of champagne. How they parted for her, how their feet made the circumference of a dais. The train starts to spiral up a mountain, the smoke plateaus near the peak. The lights had dimmed and scattered on neck jewelry and wrapped all the thin faces in glimmer. The shine off the chandelier bleeds into marionette strings above her. Posses lightness. Posses elation. The feather and the muscle, the body forgets its moorings where feet breach the tabernacle of the ground. The train clings desperately to the earth, a spider on a single string, the crumbled ridge tips like a butter knife.
Her body moving, always new, always before itself, moving, ankles cradled in air. More than absence of weight, movement before thought, the way space opens up for all winged and lovely disaster. The dance that reinvents the skeleton, casts an emblem of soaring. Her body as diaphanous blade, her body as all aviation.