March 16, 2005

Sitting on the balcony edge
a thought (it flew past her like the sparrows in spring) whispered in the ear next to her
push.
a small crack, a slip, a tumbling ectstacy of reliefe, a hole and an endless darkness. they called it cure.
Cure? cure. …cure. cure…
questions, intonations, interpretations. fingers
gripping, gripping hard like the first time on a merry-go-round,
one small edge not quite sharp enough to instill waking pain.
no falling, no push, no cure.

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