Motion Sickness

This velocity is terminal:

I walk circles in the elevator,

Afraid a moment may stop me.

Movement is a torpid measurement for life,

But I have moved forward in a gyrating world,

For which I am tossed about, out of centre

torque without an axis.

Motion sick:

I threw my heart in my stomach,

And now pray I do not hurl it up.

Tapping

It does not rain here like it does in my mind—

it only taps on my car rooftop,

on the darkened window,

on the formation of umbrellas.

Pitter patter:

only memory bends my thought

sleek. I listen; the latches wash

loose, banging the doors open

for my remembrance.

I gained my feet and inches in a city that rained;

In my own time, in years to come

I will need to return

for fear those things rust:

the rain tapping in my ears,

the rain tapping on my skin.