The Zenith

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The chain is a heartbeat in the metal.

We are tilted back so far the sky

is the only thing left to look at.

Below us, the parking lot is a toy box.

The cars are colored pebbles,

and the smell of machine grease

is sharp as a copper penny under the tongue.

There is a second—

just one—

where the pulling stops

and we are perfectly, terrifyingly balanced.