I'd like to
land on my feet
but the world
seems out of context
shoved, like a plateful of food
in your face
and you've forgotten how to eat.

the pale bend of fingers, clasping
the brush, up-down, up-down
slowly pressing rust red onto
the wavering white frocks of walls
I lie underneath
solitude
one step lower, backbreaking
and talking of me, you
and the future
I forget the in-between days,
days which were stepping stones
to that jeweled future
slowly sliding away
melting
in the dinner pot
for fate

and, as far as I can remember
I've never landed on my
feet.