The Beam

Vacillation on the beam, the 
trembling leg, the frightened 
foot that steps, wrung, on the 
four-inch wood - on either 
side, the black, the white, the 
fall, the rise, the press 
of people's eyes, the cries of 
birds of all kinds 
flying in the darkness -

and the past hovers, with wings, 
behind, and strong breath 
on the neck back, and the 
future wild with possibility, 
opaque and difficult 
to see.    What more to do in life 
except step, and feel the next 
few feet of wood beneath 
the feet.   What more to do

but think of the way back 
unpassable, the gorge swallowing 
years like air and rushing 
like water, the foam and froth 
swallowed and regurgitated 
motion.   Best foot forward 
trails the body behind like booty, 
the green sward 
in the mind only, the quiet earth.

And people disappear, leaving 
unhealing scarring on the heart, the 
bleeding wall forever oozing 
self like blood, and the forehead 
gashed with striking.    Life, the 
hard iron, the forge of fire and 
will, the dents and heated 
metal moulding the self like 
a sword God's hand can wield.
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