Philippe Petit during his twin towers walk in 1974. Photo credit: Jean-Louis Blondeau/Eyevine/Polaris

A poet is a high-wire walker

I am the moon shell beside 
the milk cup sun in a blue, penny-tiled 
wall called the sky: cold to touch. 
Thursday’s morning breath condenses 
in my lungs, where uncooked words 
wait to fire. That firing is a slow musket
load today. I think some of my gray 
matter turned to gray jam last night, 
roasted on hot confusing dreams 
like weird embers in my sweaty bed. 
But jam spreads well on the toasted
bread of notebook pages and it’s good 
fuel to eat at the ledge of a skyscraper 
which is where I write poems, which 
is where I balance the view that takes 
my breath away on a pinhead while 
I feel the tremble in my knee backs 
thighs and in my mind that asks 
what if I fall?

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