We go to sleep with the wheel kept still. Each night and day re-invented in it. A bumpy turn and the things we lug along the streetsides—bags of threshed wheat, an interest in photography, the colored tickets flapping on the parked cars—these seem to define us. But we will not be a platter of books and pencils today. We refuse to walk when the signs blindly show their confusion. Both the outline of a tiny body in white and the outline of a large hand in red blink at once, so we move away from the corner in a series of flailing hops. Over time we have learned that falling up a flight of stairs is just as easy as falling down. Anywhere. But what those legs beneath us know is how to stop, not the height of the rise or the length of the run or the stairs pet names as they meet penniless against each other. They just step— again and again. Sometimes we get caught and thrown with our bodies wholly up into the sky. One clap of the eye, then nothing we know.