You will not see the people gawking
thirty-seven stories down.
But you can watch the flicker
of gentle lights, the church steeple
pointing its sole finger in the opposite
direction of your fall, the hush of curtains
blowing out of the open windows.
You will notice that the side of the building
has been streamlined to keep its insides
from spilling on the sidewalks.
Your whole body is our center of gravity.
You are neither heavy nor light.
A distraction of happiness, a memory perhaps
make you look away from the ground.
You imagine strolling
on the street below, that ground
where a burned out streetlight stands
between you and the night
and turning your back
only to hear it rustle as you walk away.