Ninety-two feet above sea level

I peer out your port hole
basically unshaken
by the bizarre night haze,
unable to shake the panoramic
half-past noon view it gave
the day I could have
kept on walking (I'm amazed

I didn't. Your insecurity is still intimidating).
I'm sure your soup is cold
and congealed now and a sore
throat lozenge would be more
pragmatic--just lay back;
the truth is I just want for
us to fit into some archetype:
chicken (well, this is pork)

soup brought lovingly for sickness
and please, don't worry yourself
over the pesticides in the feed;
don't let your prejudices lead
you--God knows I don't:
I doubt your skills as a cushion
but I fall toward you anyway;

I hesitate and
you lurch forward,
off your bed,
so I brace for it--
arms outstretched--
and continue falling.

(It seems that lurch
that lynched your last
good bit of strength
was conjured
not to reciprocate,
but to push me far away.)