The Reach of Balance

What is falling out there in the distance? Something yellow, something that spirals. It's pretty, what I don't know, the not knowing unfolding, the unfolding knowing how without asking. What is open doesn't yield to analysis, while what fills it - briefly, slightly - is only partially addressed by Husserl. She says quietly she is tired of being a woman whose only job in life is to clean up after men who break windows. We are not placeholders, we kiss our fingers after, and we decline to rush past the infinite mosaic. Wait for her to join us before the infinite mosaic? Corvids intimate a mode of existence not predicated on promises. I want to tell you that even "sky" mistakes its own referent. One lingers over the intimate meal, one never gets past saying grace. For many years, the traveler studied her ticket, imagining a Venn diagram at the center of which was a name she didn't recognize. Far beyond the reach of balance it is I who am falling.