Some of us understood
when we turned it over
and became more
intimate with what
the day had in store;
 
we learned
it is less interesting
to know than wonder.
So we closed the drape
with its bindweed pattern
 
and let the sun run
through its lines
until the pattern
became rehearsed, dry,
old fashioned as meter and rhyme.
 
We found so many of our
questions could be handled
this way, not answered or
laid to rest, but packed away
unsoiled by what we could not say.
 
Still, there was something we
wanted to ask each other and
it required us to hold hands
look over the edge, with eyes
wide, put our faith on the ledge
 
and walk, like A Man on Wire,
into the air where the only
question that matters is
how far do we fall before
letting go?
 
The sun, with all its spots,
keeps setting the tempo.
A beat that brings dancers
to their knees as they wait,
vibrating like holograms in
 
waves of heat. But you and
I have been through that
long slow dance of fate,
come out the other side
of time’s capriciousness
 
where the measure of
days, nights, hours,…
is as regular as the tide,
to find our dance can only
be finished in a dream.
 
 
 
 
 
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