And no this is not abandonment
as in forgetting the way in which
you were raised, as in forsaking
every good word you’ve read
in the Good Book—as if your
actions now would be reactions.

This is something else entirely,
more like the feeling a butterfly
must have when breaking from
its spit-wad nest, first freeing
a technicolor wing and then
another, first the twisting
and breaking before the flutter—

more like the prominence
of an art display at a museum
when you first walk in: you have
no option but to confront it.

Suspension involves something
else pulling the weight, like
the ten-story-tall crane you see
on your way to work every day:
swiveling and lifting steel like
a toothpick. Yet suspension
is something asked of you
before you ask of it: the feeling
a hang-glider must have
when running to a cliff edge,
not knowing if the wind
will carry him to the horizon’s end
or suspend its given gust.

Before suspension, there
must be belief undeniably
in the things that are, belief
that another sits somewhere
watching over, pulling strings.