The Angle of Descent

It begins just as the world tilts forward,

Not a lurch, not a collapse,

but the faintest surrender of balance -

as if the horizon has forgotten its posture.

-

Shadows lengthen where there is no sun.

The air thins, brightens,

a taste of copper at the back of the tongue.

-

Something small slides inside me,

like a coin dropped down a well.

The echo never comes back.

-

Branches angle toward the slope,

their leaves turned like pages

I can't yet read.

-

I think of brakes,

of choices I've rehearsed in quieter rooms,

but the silence here is weight enough.

-

Forward becomes a spell spoken under breath,

a vow pressed into the mouth of the earth.

And I, standing on the lip unseen,

understand the tilt is not in the road,

but in me.