59: A Number

Does the mountain rise

or the ground descend - age climb

or life retract. I know

my butt descends,

drags my belt.

Breasts are a hanging bag of stories, the weight

off my shoulders; I wear at my middle

the milky peaks of life.

Muscles sag. I pull them up,

put them on.

I hear the soul rise

when it leaves. It has slept here

so long. And my mind

comes down - past me,

all the way

all the way down.

Knock me over. A feather: I am just ahead,

buffeted

when footfall claps this sky.