the central painting of a triptych

I am watching girls do pirouettes
in the middle of the lounge room,
bodies revolving,
eyes returning, always, in stolen glances
back at the analog wall clock.
I am pretending to be disinterested,
my knuckles whitening as they fall,
terrified of any botched emergency first aid I
would need to perform
on banged heads, or loosened kneecaps.
Thomas Pynchon open at my fingertips,
his sentences long and punctuated
with commas and double meanings,
I can hardly commit a phrase to memory:
the women of Bordando el Manto Terrestre
squeezing tears from Oedipa,
as I am left with dark lines, fearful hands, and a body filled with circling.

I will not sink into the soil. But the roots will crack the earth and lay me to rest. And the grass, and plants and trees will grow up around me. And perhaps I shall disappear in the thick of it. Or, just maybe, their tendrils will sprout and prosper beneath me. Expose me to the hot sun.