(ESA/Hubble & NASA, CC BY 4.0)


Up. Down.
Words without meaning.

I only know there’s no need
to work hard to push blood to my head,

no need for these muscles, these bones.
Here, they are a burden.

I let them thin.
They flow away in my urine.

From now on, I’ll float.

I can barely remember what it was like
to rise, to walk,

the effort it took
to clamor to my feet.

Published in the December 14, 2018 issue: View Contents

Bill Ayres is working in his seventh bookstore. His poems have appeared recently in Plainsongs, The Windhover, Bird’s Thumb, and the Anglican Theological Review.

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