AS THE GROUND ACCELERATES TOWARDS YOU AT AN ACUTE ANGLE

If I tilt my head to the side
you are perpendicular
and the rest of this unholy mess
is at a slant
Italic trees in parallel
mark the degrees
ten past the hour
Dry leaves defy gravity
There is no slide to the east
Shadows brave the slope
The Sun no longer certain
of its position
Toes grip for balance
Legs lengthen or shorten
to compensate
Fire-engine red you stand out
amid the muted woodland
You lean against the sky like Atlas
carrying all on your back

from Raining Upwards