Gravity and You

You saunter (no other
word would describe
the lilt of your gait quite
so eloquently) toward
me, smiling. You tilt
your head in question:

"What are you doing?" The question
remains unanswered. You ask another:
"Why are you upside down?" I tilt
my head toward you. "Describe
'upside down.'" You lean toward
me: "you." I beam "Not quite!"

"Not-" (I interrupt) "Quite!
Not at all, in fact. Your question
is invalid." You seem to lean toward
cuffing me, but you repeat the other
question, your first. So I describe
why I am laying, on a dock with a tilt,

my head limp over the edge: "The tilt
and the view flipped around cannot quite
be defined. Don't make me describe!
Lay, back down, belly up, on the dock and question
yourself: is there a better view of the other
side?" You lay down, roll toward

me. I lean toward
you. You push me down the tilt
of the dock toward the other
edge. I roll quite
close to the river, shout: "Question!"
"Yes?" "Can you describe

it? Can you describe
the other bank?" I reach toward you.
You halt my fall, question
my motives, pull me close, and tilt
your body into mine- not quite
close, yet. I lean toward that other

side (the river, the edge), describe and question
other chances toward my redemption,
before, quite certain, I tilt back toward you.