Before the globe,
was there a flat map
of a flat world,
little matchstick people,
standing around,
afraid to fall off the edge?
Is it any less strange than
to think of us teetering,
stuck out at odd angles
from the sides
of a sphere,
like the flares from the sun,
each one
a gaseous wonder
breezing into air
and colouring
atmosphere?
Reaching toward the
Karman Line,
trusting in the lift
and velocity,
to take us higher
than gravity,
further,
outwards,
reaching always;
temporal
to terminal,
thinning into
ionosphere,
inhaling negative
and positive
charge.
I know I stand upright,
most days,
when I’m not flat on my back
or kneeling,
praying for
a world where
gaseous exchange is unequal
and trust,
as a commodity
in short supply,
is the only thing keeping us
sticking to the surface.
scottishmomus 