A leap
from its own hands,
inverting itself on its own slide.
Inventing the air before touching it
It doesn’t wait for the blind trot of the fall,
it invents it as if it were a horizon.
as if the leap itself could invent the place where it lands.
What guides it can’t be seen, it lives inside like a map
Knowing that below is anywhere
root. vine. moss.
A body that falls
you have to fall and you can’t choose where
But there’s a certain shape the wind takes in your hair
A certain pause in the gallop that we can bend while we fall.