Moments later, I fell again and was flattered

Were wires slipknot stuck, slipped in twists, cracks, crevices
left like leaves on back-alley macadam or like strips of grass
pushing up through concrete and where wire whips there too,
humming in machine tongue, march bits breaking faster.

I am wing-torque, tipping, tumbling to stall seven thousand
feet above wherever, and when there is no nose to pull
into the wind, wherever whips up faster and finds
pilots praying or posturing or I once heard them contemplating
their wish to know the place they were soon to meet, and to
fill their heads with fantasies etching lives into the corn fields
and small farms that they soon furrowed - a small creation given
without remorse as a dying trust to my careful abstract ear.

When spun so fine, dust ekes or carouses or slinks or settles with
each separate abandon hidden and still life stammers into muffled
radiance where each separate mote mottles in time - despite painters
preference, so that there will be movement even there, still, and perhaps
tarnishing the colors themselves will trapped embers of passing
preserve and stare out on those who stare and wonder what was
down the hall, or by the window, or under the lamp light, to give
shadow and stalling colour just so.