falling’s weightlessness is troubled
not like the airtime of up-drafting hawks
or homosapien gliders hung under silk billows
out of their element, 
snubbing gravity, taking on airs,
nor like the honking camaraderie
of southbound geese chasing solar flares

to know that speeding mass in collisions
in a world of muscle and blood
brings bereavement is usually enough
to keep most breathers 
from dancing on edges
or diving off ledges

by a wise prescience we understand
that freefall without orbit
must be a heavy weightlessness
no matter how long its freedom lasts
once gravity’s die is cast

biology’s more temporal
than stone and steel

in falling minds minutes are surreal
and time expands as down mind coasts

—as future shortens past grows richer
and now’s edge is honed so fine
as to split the hairs of ghosts,
and life ‘s full-tipped to spill last hours out
which cling to sides of tissue pitchers

past becomes a fuller world, more here,
which is why old fallers often go there more
than fresh fallers do, who, still green,
in exhilarated falling feel only wind in hair
the sheen of mornings crisp and new
being blessed to not fully grasp
that they are falling too
by Jim Culleny

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