The Limits Poem by Florence Weinberger

Sometimes it's the grip of the tide
that sucks you down, or it might be
the skid of the earth unsettling you.
The wind strips the kite from your hand.
Sometimes you're holding the wheel
just right when you're hit from behind.

Some things you will learn: to weigh
and measure, cook a roast or bake a cake,
not stray or linger outside of the lines.
Fingers can be taught, you can
train your eyes, subdue your body, your
brain, keep to the ways of predictable grace.

You've done this for years, get in the car,
your eyes and feet now your servants.
You can stop at the light you've stopped at
a thousand times, scan the dark highway
on a clear night, move with familiar skill
into the right lane, slip smoothly into the left.

Days later, awake at four in the morning,
it will chill you again. You'll recall the hit,
then the spinning, you don't know
if it's you or the ground, the spinning,
the endless spinning, and your hands
as useless as everything you know.