Teeter-Totter Poem by Brian Minniear

In a world where there really are no superheroes or perfect bodies
As much as the impetus for their imagination

A poetry of thought
On fire from the friction of reckoning
The festivals of glances and games of symbolism that eventually become
Common words no one recognizes; or can remember the lineage of their age
Can remember why they are called

And these are the names of our days.

So-called and forthcoming inexorably measured in cycles or seconds
Yet forever broken down further and repeating.
The height of wind astrolabe spun vining upward vying for
Arrest in predictions of light.

I've heard them say that that proximate a pass would stop us spinning on our axis:
Haywire tectonics
Like the rooms at the old fairs' houses of fun
Where the furniture had been glued to the ceiling as though it once was a floor,
Or going too quickly to stop before the edge of a curve.
The onset of a cold
The swelling of its glands.
This orb hung in its place in an eternity of dimensions,

A new balance struck.
An augmentation of calendar.
We are rebroken then down these long paths of construction
As the scent becomes pervasive even takes on its own color,
Then glances and games in spans of measurement ever
Repeating and denominated.

A teeter-totter.
Or to think.