Trust

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.