Who can know for how long you’ve been falling—
until the vastness, dim and spare,
discretely legible and worn with use,
is no longer referred to by its real name.
You were drawn in, lungs first. Of course you sank.
Perceptibly finite, repurposed, just
like everything else. But all those who sink
were at first needed. Not your fault if the
blood is too warm, and love too circular
to last you. If only there had been less
of it all. Some day, you keep thinking,
you too will arrive at its deep deep core.