The poem starts a place without word
outside the hourglass
The sound is an outburst (exclamation!)
whether a howl is uncertain, more likely a caw
Brains pretend to know, but they don’t
sadly at perch too high perhaps
It’s the last flight out in search
of reconnaissance stalled on the tarmac
On a high reef
or a low arete
In certain dreams I spiral down
sharp winding roads without guard rail
where perilous switchbacks cause me to dangle
precariously close to then over the edge
perennially in descent but how decent of you
to drop by thank you I would kiss you yet . . .
chances are odds are
merely an end to a means to an end
© Chagall 2014
