180 Second Freefall Poem by Dan Reynolds

Somewhere in the debris, hid
beneath the poet's workshop
post-its, napkins, bus tickets
are jockeying for position.

Somewhere in the middle ground
between the ink and sweat stains
an idle thought is floating on
the jetsam of the day

somewhere in the subterfuge
of someone's idle tryst
a motion that was carried falls
across the starting line

somewhere in vacuity
confusion coaches chaos
and maelstroms of Minerva's hair
are lashing sun- bleached skin

somewhere in a psyche
of a weeping villanelle
a poet lays his pen down soft
to bid one last farewell.