In that kidding tone of yours, you told
me it all began
when the smooth soles of your dress shoes
skidded on the rain-soaked grass.
Your body splayed on the ground,
displayed on the ground.
Your new suit so unsuitable
on the diagonal plane.
How you tried to recover yourself
by covering yourself
with small dismissive gestures,
like the cat,
licking herself, slicking herself,
after a clumsy fall.
You compared your anarchist limbs
to the antichrist limbs
of the medieval damned, in those
paintings where they’re
tumbling from God’s grace: arms
flung over their heads,
bodies like flaccid Xs, exiting
the upright world.
You kept searching the neighbors’
windows to find your reflection
in some sympathetic eye, any I,
because like all of us
you needed to be beheld, to be
held, so the falling would stop.