OF THE ITEMS NECESSARY:

Of course the wind.

A horizon, birch-bent. Maybe two.
From the ground it looks like a rib
from the sky-shadow of the same.

The motion of an object                           in or through a medium
                                                      (rephrase: the sustained motion.)
Ascent.
Boundaries.

Need is a winged thing,
feathered, quill-hollow.

Let's not forget the roll, yaw, and pitch.

This poem is endless, as

the heart a magpie squawking
after and after.

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ON THE DAY HE WAS BORN THE SKY LOOKED LIKE THIS:

Related because, according to us, 'planet' is another way of saying how things wander off but find
their way again. Here, this concept of orbit is translated as 'fate.'

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AS A COPPER MINE DREAMS OF SURFACING

Defining, yet underreported moments in the early years of Robert Craig Knievel, Jr.:

1954 (age sixteen) -- Our hero takes his first job as a diamond drill operator with the Anaconda Mining Company. Decides the earth has nothing for him.

1957 (age nineteen) -- Our hero joins the military track team, specializing in pole-vaulting. Breaks no records, breaks no bones. False starts.

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THE DEATH OF ROBERT CRAIG KNIEVEL

A rebel     vectoring     a terrible     rocket     a trick     orbiting 
center     leveling     rock     a broken     cover      convert 
reborn     a blink      in orbit    or clever     king     a biker     like
a kite     or let to linger     brave     center     reeling      gentler

Once you are Evel, we hear: veil, shovel, devil.

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CAESAR'S PALACE, 1967

Trajectory /n/: from the Latin traiectus,
past participle of the verb traicere. "Thrown across, thrown over."

On final approach the universe
splits in two, branching Y-like,
arms outstretched,
to accommodate each outcome.

Knievel clears the fountains but does not stick the landing;
in the morning the papers will describe the fall as end over end.

t -› , see how in the sign
for infinity, two worlds
so close they look like an embrace

Later, when asked how it feels to be in a coma for more than a month:
"How the fuck should I know? I was in a coma."

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OR ELSE PICTURE THE CURVE AT THE NAPE OF A NECK

Whether or not he is aware of it, Evel
Knevel has attained terminal velocity.

An object dropped from a high place.
Neglect air resistance.
Its velocity (v) after (t) seconds is given
v = -32t feet per second.

On the other hand, when Knievel falls,
arms and legs spread wide
(or else a parachute)
resistance has a significant effect on the velocity.

Eventually the change in the velocity is less and less and reaches a constant value. When graphed it makes an arc:

SNAKE RIVER CANYON, 1974

Of course the fall.

A pedal, hell-bent. Maybe two.
From the ground it looks like a man
from the sky—we could not say.

The motion of an object                       thrown up against itself
                                                               (rephrase: we didn't look away.)

The last thing we saw
before the parachute:
a plume, puff of smoke up into dust.

Caught up by the wind
He drifted back to where he began.

Round as orbit, an eye socket,
a cavity, land.

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REMEMBERING ALWAYS THAT THE LAST TWO FRACTURES WERE OBTAINED ON THE GOLF COURSE, AND IN THE BATH

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This poem began as an exploration of how arcs/curves behave in both physics and narrative. It includes images collaged from [here]