Antonia Cima



     Things That Fall From The Sky

       Snow. Hail. I do not like sleet,
       but when it is mixed with pure
       white snow, it is very pretty.
          ~Sei Shonagon


My kitchen countertop
looks as
if

it
fell out
of the sky:

chopped poultry, cracked-ice
formica, mist
on

my
glasses, this
package I just

received stamped with
six black
butterflies.

Fraught
with wings
& my given

name, everything seems
to be
air

borne
like sicknesses.
Sometimes snow flakes

can be mistaken
for blossoms,
coming

into
& falling
out of existence.

Struck by something
heavier than
hands,

the
most amazing
magazine just came

falling from the
sky! A
storm

of
ephemera-like ashes.
(Don't let their

chalkiness bring you
down.) It's
the

sort
of para-bombardment
no one expects.

We vacuum up
the dust
from

deserts
clear on
the other side

of the planet.
Pamphlets! The
presence

of
the non-articulated
(as below so

above) light brushes
of the
eyelids

create
the briefest
interruption of sun

shine. Icarus-like deep-red
falls of
flesh

&
blood from
the sky would

generate no small
amount of
curiosity.

Strange
confetti. Akin
to Icelandic sparks,

your breath, a
cloud that's
fallen

into
cold-storage, a
plague of hailstones

that smell like
lilacs or
some

bubonic
passage. Falling
to the earth

in a slow
spin, you'd
maybe

laugh
at the
flow of air

brought in as
a tonic,
doors

flung
wide-open, the
skin holds all

of this surface
tension, the
subject

withdrawn
to make
room for invasions

of fallen things.
(I fell
asleep

while
writing the
above.) My grammar

even worse than
that of
consciousness,

half-way-between
nothing to
say & space-clear

rain plunging down
with funereal
magnificence.

This
spiral of
events, a cyclone

of leaves funneling
toward absent
mindedness.








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