This is your final resting place, post-slip
through synapses of my fingertips. I wish
I’d been able to sketch the easy dimension
of us as we hurtled through cityscapes: its aged
tin-cans promised sixty, but grated along at more
like twenty. They are like grasping at gummy atoms,
strands pulling fabric. So I’ll try and cut shapes from
something more concrete. Something pretty and great,
like the Eiffel or Leaning Tower of Pisa. Something
profound like the Sistine Chapel. I just wish
to cannibalise Michelangelo. But all I can think
of is caught and nothing’s moving: physicists tell us
static charges are always hardest to push from stand-still.
It’s probably why so many of us jump from buildings,
or stick our heads inside Easy Homebake ovens.