centers of gravity in non-programmatic poetry, cities

Writing without a predefined programmatic or narrative structure -- and I imagine this would apply to free musical improv, "action painting", and other similar pursuits -- is something like writing in "zero gravity". As soon as you put a few words or fragments of meaning (minimum two) together on the page, you establish a center of gravity -- to which the immediately subsequent fragments cling by virtue of the simple fact that the reader who encounters them will come at them from the perspective of just having read the first few words. Had the reader encountered different words at the opening of the poem, the reader would be, effectively, a different reader -- the reader has irrevocably lost a certain innocence, at least with regard to the present piece of writing.

The writer, too, has lost innocence and may in fact find that it takes a great of effort to establish a new center of gravity that is somehow still part of the same piece of writing (a feat generally necessary if the poem/writing is to be a being which unfolds in time rather than simply accumulates in the eternal present). That last qualifier, that the new center of gravity somehow exist within the same piece of writing, is the tricky part -- i.e., what's the difference between a new piece of writing and a new center of gravity within the same piece of writing?

Here I'd like to switch analogies and say that each center of gravity functions as a sort of local economy. We say that the centers exist within the same piece when the fragments of meaning that constitute one of the centers have an exchange value -- a currency -- within the other center(s). Somehow we're able to interpret the contents of one center in terms of the other, to conjugate the contents of one according the implicit logic of another. Whenever this possiblity exists, the careful reader becomes a conduit of trade/communication/exchange between the centers -- a cosmopolitan citizen of the word taking up residence in one city after the next . . .