a neat balance of the grip that pulls
and the calloused hands that push
around we go — the natural cohesion
holding us in place
our eyes accustomed to the motion
if we thought about it hard enough
perhaps we would turn inside out
our pinkish organs dangling
under their own weight
our bones desperately grasping
to scoop them up
deep inside us our skin
shrivelling and curling in on itself
the gentle wind hurting our kidneys
