Leading edge or precipice, I cannot
tell, at times, the difference—the cracking
of a grimace or a grin, all I’ve got
to judge by is the vast unseen backing
of unknowable, or puny thoughts I
milk that, known, smell justified. By girdling,
I protect the sordid, keep a cold eye
out for more. Why not consent to hurtling
through space? Ride some small joy to escalate
the trust. I’ve reached this far, I’m pretty sure
the means by which to further acclimate
will come and come again. From fear, abjure!
From in this sphere, I recognize your smile;
along this leading edge, let’s rest awhile.
© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image by author of Quirke Lake,