Freefall

 
He plans to plummet
from the edge of space.
Freefall. Rainfall. Whirlwind.
He'll break the sound barrier
in a supersonic suit, and cascade
like a waterfall of screams. 
Freewheeling. Squealing. Whoosh.

I imagine as he drops
he'll have time to celebrate himself
as a feather falling
at the same rate as rock, 
as a windfall of apples,
canvas carved into sail, 
master mariner, first man,
Adam of the stratosphere, Icarus
come back to report 
from the sun's proximity.
To think: God must see me now
that I'm a cinder in his eye.

Time to remember,
and therefore to regret. 
Worthless. What if. Son of a bitch.
Time, entering the atmosphere
with minutes yet, to picture
himself on the ground, 
legs whole under him.
Buckled, white-knuckled.

A long time trying not to listen
for the chuckle of his blood 
if it begins to boil.

Silence as he calculates
terminal velocity and counts
and counts and counts
on gravitational pull,
the one sure thing
any of us will ever know,
and wishes he'd prepared
a prayer with airtight snaps.

Time (how much more?)
as his shoulders ache
to feel that first jerk of chute.
Falling. Failing. Fallible.
Nightfall. Landfall. Merciful.

A lifetime, as the planet, then 
the country, then 
New Mexico rushes up 
to ask him why he didn't find
the ordinary plunge 
from birth to death 
terrifying enough.