atlas/atlas

What holds up
life not limbs but illusion
in time stretched
forward past center
poles and paradise
with worms and thread
in reverse and standstill.
So drifty as the stars may be
above when able-bodied
progenitors without
skeletal axis
without axis,
stapes or digit ride
upon a road with
continuous lack of end and lap
each other in constance,
kiss in their small collision
with futile precise precision,
they cry importantly
as iron gods do.
Yet this is already here,
an arrow in the spine
of your longing.