Not The Ground

I'm learning that

if I sit very still and

reach out my hand

the truth will crawl into it

if am patient enough

that if the wind is just right

and I stay out here 

long enough

true things will twist in the air 

around my head

and if I listen hard enough

I can learn their language

as if it had been 

something I knew all along

so that I'm not learning it at all

but only remembering

and if I can translate

those moments 

when the truth blows in

if I can piece all the signs together

like a shaman

then I will understand that

it's not the ground that has

been shifting

but my very own magnetic poles

the top and the bottom 

of me

sliding into each other's places

until my entire landscape 

is unrecognizable

It is not the ground

but only my knees 

that shake

and only my teeth

that chatter

it is not the bottom 

that eventually falls out

but rather 

my sharp will

that pokes out a hole there

so that it can leak 

slowly, like syrup 

my own will

that tries so hard

to empty me