"You look like a regular Phillip Petit up there"

I don't need this I live on
residual heat I live on
an acre of hardwood with
bruised hipbones. I live on
and sometimes I stretch this
wire of a body to the ceiling and
hang from the rafters.

I hang there, a knitted minaret,
with my wrists turned back with
my ribcage chiming my ribcage
hammered and chiming,
my equined tendons tracing crescents
in the floorboards or else kicked up
in wild unborn dances.
my eyes open,
my breath a swallow through low clouds;
cutting small circles for the sun.