On the edge

Picture by Aleks Dahlberg

I stand drenched in a quarry of eyes
The drips roll through my back, my hands, my bear legs
I’m tainted by the dew at the dawn of my doubts
They rise as a big star, hot and fusty, delivering a pound of questions
I should not allow my face to become so flustered
And my body should react better to my commands
But there I am
Vulnerable at the edge 
My feet clawing the floor for an insurance they don’t have
I hold on as if the world would reward me 
Perhaps if I could be oily enough for her waterness
Then I’d be a subject much easier to contain
I’d be a better science
But I’m covered, completely soaked
From each of my hands run ambiguous rivers
If they collide, I may end up dry and arid as a desert
I may cough the sands of hesitation
Of wasted time, wasted whishes, wasted potential
But they run
They run so fast I briefly think they’re escaping from me
My fingers are heavy and tired with their own inefficiency
Letting this go and instantly disappear into the floor
The murder of ravenous eyes still want the answer
They caw and chirp opinions undesired
Each stare gets me closer to scarcity
I swing to the end of the hill
She’s down there, banging against the stones 
This drum is also a calling
As much as I try I cannot become viscous
I’m sorry
Once I go, there’s nothing in the world good enough to isolate water from water
Love is limpid and, drop by drop, I fall completely.