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?