“Love is metaphysical gravity.”
Buckminster Fuller

At 12,000 feet I grip
the ogling hole of the cargo door.

The earth, its green flannels
jaggedly sewn, seems to loop

as one step out my feet salute
and pirouette on blue.

Then a tug from the drogue shoot
points me belly down.

This is gravity sucking.
The deafening whoosh of air

makes a commotion in my sleeves
as good things approach:

dirt, pasture, a scattering of trees
like burrs on a pant leg.

All good things suck. How the sun
sucks earth through orbit!

How earth’s massive temerity
sucks me fast to its rind.

How within me saline orbits
suck blood from bone.

We are each from a notion
suckled. Our forebears

were sucked aground
from the salt wound of an ocean.

A brown newborn, waxy and plump,
is primed for life’s

inaugural motion. All good things
are made new by sucking.

The buckling of grass beneath snow
cannot last. The sun

is sucking clouds from ground water.
The sun is lapping dew off clover.

The rock heft of orbs
is a ploy for making orbits.

Only orbits accrue. There is no endless
straight line through.

There is the rhythm of breath
sucked in from a vastness.

There is the sigh of soiled breath
sucked clean again by green.

The leaves do it in silence:
they are sucking nectar from light.

The fire in its eloquent dappling
sucks rings of sun that lie coiled in wood.

The frail bubble of atmosphere
is an exhalation sucked high and sheer.

The moon tends her garden of inundations
and beats the waves senseless.

Stars interrupt a black canopy of sky
and suck darkness inside out.

The mind, like a child with a mixing bowl,
sucks clean to the cranium its delight.

And I am an element unloosed, flotsam
in the ether, tidbit in a tailspin.

I plunge through orbits, drawn
by the inestimable love of earth. Love, too,

sucks. All good things do. All things true
are forged in the gulf of sucking.