Earthquakes Call Us to the Things of this World.

My future and my past are slightly jagged corkscrews,
all my adverbs accordioned across that path,
which, itself, always wants to keep moving!
But forces keep it, along with me, encircling
(a simple machine if I ever saw one).
All my dates and times and places reduce to segments,
coordinates along a the rocky schedule.
Intangibles, in prisms, in atmosphere, inertia.
So if I want to see you, I have to scout a point;
orient myself so I fall into place,
the jigsawed system, we the final pieces
slam with enough force to knock some earbuds out.
Reorient what swings me to vertical
and we are falling, or sliding, sick and standoffish,
crusty, with old plans and trajectories latent on the mantle.
It's a good thing that I'm used to this climate,
for I know in my core that I am never exiting:
ad nauseam 3-D timecircles lack the momentum
to swing me free into uncharted, open space,
oceans, prairies, deserts, Fridays, encounters.