SYNCOPE
A swoon,
a mysterious state
like portions of Utah, rock-strewn, wavering with heat
in the crosswinds of solidity and insubstantiality.
Taking a left turn, the invisible ocean
sloshes right as if a moon buzzed the stoplight,
gravity increasing erosion, a geological corollary
to the minim of fluid in the inner ear.
At a dead stop, checking the tires,
the rush of focused compression floated the passengers
starting with the right front partially inflated.
Like the moon making slip-fall at Friday Harbor,
even the slight is magnified
like the first sight of horses in Peru, bee sting,
around which, for moments, the universe whirled.
_____________
Allan Peterson