His day of destiny; the wire
stretched taut above the square.
A fall, an end, might magnify
his life from some perspectives.
Not from his. He would lament
the imperfection, the inadequate technique.
Meanwhile, our world is frozen,
turned to stone. Up there is life
in his self-image. All his days
he's walked a wire of some sort,
for the most part, privately, but here exposure
is the object of the game:
the square is his theatre,
the world a place to stretch a wire,
to walk a skyway; never
a part of our lives - save
the moment when a gust excites, disturbs,
ruffles leaves and hair, and brings
the crowd to life. He pauses,
stands insouciant, then sways
as to a distant band; moves
on once more, the poise regained
that was not lost, except we thought it so.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...