It’s a loop:
one moment we are dangling
close to the floor,
the next we are shunted
up and up towards
a thinking hand
an earth-solid thumb
a finger that remembers
and forgets.

They touch us briefly and
we soar across a wrinkled
expanse of palm
wood warmed against
living palpating skin.

Then we exit into the
brisk spritz of morning
the muggy swamp of noon
evening chill and retraction
and begin our descend
clack by subtle, intractable clack
gliding south to our nadir
to be low for a while
before that inverted gravity
draws us skywards
once more.

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