8 Frames of A Boy Falling From a Ferris Wheel



Every American knows the ghost of Coney Island

we rarely though


from this altitude

Icarus in the henhouse



Youth exists in the perpetual recognition of gravity

without consequence

the inhalation

the wingless


Ferris wheel mirage

spokes snowing white rust

over fields of the quieted midway



The only difference

between flight and falling

is distance

a rat’s labyrinth is a puzzle from above

I can see it

a ticking two dimensional clock

wound once and imperceptibly beginning to slow



The same silver watch

they give to retired racehorses

they will give you

the world from up here

on a chain

length untested



The mathematicians called a meeting

to declare I don’t exist

but I can count the distance

by my fists

from this sudden folly

to the shrinking squares of their many swimming pools



For a moment he floats with one hand reaching for the parking lot like it was a lock, turning

only a moment, leaving the wheel behind like a wall with no floor

a chlorine light, would-be beast from the sea: remember this



What substance etches the jumper like skywriting from a plane into the air?

He left a message trailing from his bare feet

perhaps a wish for wings

perhaps simply, “hello” written for something so big it only sees you as you’re vanishing



The ozone gasp of impact

I watch myself escape

but I do not/ but I will

when the wind stops blowing

NATE MAXSON is a writer and performance artist. He is the author of several collections of poetry, most recently, The Whisper Gallery (Lit Fest Press, 2015). He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.