To latitude and rotation

or was it platitude and floatation
that pressed you up against the cul-de-sac curb
where all the poplar’s fallen leaves converge?

No, it was latitude and rotation,
a relentless sense of spinning in place until
you can’t see your own orbit

around her. Such minimal oxygen
in atmosphere so thin. A careless kind of latitude
without a proper balance of longitude.

Where 23° 27’
means nothing to you, clockwise, counter-clockwise,
rotating in a tilt always toward her photosynthetic smile and solar flare.

It must have been gratitude and fornication
that settled you into her clogged gutter
until the next gush dragged you down the storm drain.