This is the trick: Get out of where you are
in your deliberate home—kitchen gestalt
 
in paring knife, colander, clocksure ribs
of juicer, every perfect thing in synch
 
and place, spigot and looking glass; bookshelves
that loom the living room—and limn yourself
 
into the doorway, a safe place to fail
against, neither this room nor that. Now splay
 
soles into dovetails, hands to jamb. Exert
flush full against the frame. You will yield first,
 
but wait—hold it a spell. Hold hard. Quake. Tick
off sixty down to naught. This is the trick
 
the young play on themselves, seeking a swerve
from known to nigh, ceding to ghost stunt, nerve
 
and reflex. Once the countdown swoons to none,
release your stance, loose self, tilt shelves, welcome
 
the phantom rising: two freed arms in flight
from sill and you, will shilling its own sleight.