Newton's Apples

The cake falls in the oven.
The boy falls off the ladder on purpose and lands on his neck.

There is a construction-papered jar on the desk with
three dollar bills inside so he can get surgery and learn to walk again.

I wake up and forget how to tie my shoelaces,
momentarily. I feel guilt all down my unbroken back when I succeed.

The congregation falls to its knees and the boy prays
to the patron saint of do-overs and the preacher preaches on.

Things fall at once.
The apartments down the street catch fire;

balconies fall onto cars and start a jazz band of alarms.
The boy. Across the country, skyscrapers. Plums fall from their branches

and the crows dash. Summer becomes fall.
The cake I baked for you and you alone falls and

tastes dense, chews tough. I'm sorry it fell and left me
nothing to wish you a happy birthday with

but my own two hands, which are falling to my lap
like wingless birds still learning the limitations of their winglessness.