11-20-2008 Why does this floor smell like herring?

With lead feet I slide into fortune, cast
in poses of bronze. Zipper straight, I right
myself by trusting only in the fast
assurance of a smooth, endless delight.

Faith loses me. Between the meshing teeth
of fate, all that I am is jagged bends
of knee bowing above the ground, beneath
the sky. I am an up that must descend

to follow more familiar downs. Some place
beyond the reach of cosmic janitors
who wink white-whiskered at the fallen, grace
will find me in a clumsy heap that stirs

where no horizons hold their timid thread
to bind the stars that orbit overhead.