Don McKay
What goes up
improvises, makes itself a shelf out of nowt,
out of ether and work, ushering the air, backstroke
after backstroke, underneath
the earth turns and you
don't, and don't
and don't: O
who do you think you are so
hugely paused, pissing off both
gravity and time,
refusing to be born into the next
inexorable instant?
We wait in our pocket of held breath:
do it for us.
