We don't stand--we drip, drawn down
by gravity, each layer leaching
into the next, the skin a supple cloth
draped over dangling bones, cascading
down over it all, falling always.

We stand not on the floor, but because of it,
the ground thrusting up
to land our fall, support shooting
up the spine, spindling around
to smooth the crumples.
We stand not in stillness but in movement,
body busy with the ceaseless sway
of balance, muscles conversing
to parcel out the weight
for an instant
of equilibrium.

Tatiana Margitic