for Geof Morris
Force:
This is the hour of liquid fire: it only needs
The telemetry in the nerves to feed
One signal to the bloodstream. We need
No other fuel to make hyperthermic
Our trajectories, our flint-scraping speech.
Mass:
Even we may yet have grace if we move
With sufficient speed; there is no stumbling
That cannot be made into a dance
If we can will ourselves into heat. We need
No other wings to attain velocity;
On the ground they would only be weight,
And past the exosphere they might block our eyes
To the vapored sparks behind the earthrise.
Acceleration:
At ignition point we become a steam, pulled
Past perihelion into the one first fire
That ever set our minds to fly — but if this
Were apotheosis, we would never come back
Past the line of light, still needing to rise
And burn ourselves alive.
March 2011