Often I am permitted to spin,
flip, go turvy-top, turning
toward unmade places,
shadows, sites of last chances
in a game of loopty-loo,
falling down on an unyielding
ground. Often I recoil from
the permissions I’ve
taken, unsanctioned, 
want to crawl back to,
well, that’s the problem, no
idea where, the past sure
folded fast. The power
of heartlessness in the bitter
cold of flight frightens
more than I care to say or
begin to tell.