Bottoms Up Poem by James McLain

As I lay falling forward toward,
a Mordred pool of clear, champaign
I look up,
at the bottom of the well.
Orders of similarity disappear, rapidly,
when I reach surfaced tension,
this bottom is the rocky show for me.
There is no bottom button to push,
would I again, you would think so,
falling up with a smile.
I land on a living, moving,
shag carpet, it leans in, on impact.
I run for the nearest fold of cover, to check it out.