Life is dubious
though death is certain,
life is the apple’s lust to fall,
to be bitten
to burn in its burst of passion.
to be chained to the gravity of sands
pulling them down
anchoring them to the earth, the bottom of air
yet pulling them uphill every day anew
on the trees, on the ends of branches.
the Sisyphus of urges
orbiting with no mercy round and round
like time around the clocks’ cores,
around the equilibrium pose
where all the wings,
all the living things dance
in order of
grabbing on to their stance,
in the orbits of distance,
endlessly
horizon after horizon,
loop after loop,
to entwine
the enchainment
of departure.
