Tightrope walker
The pure geometer steps out,
the shortest distance measured in possibilities:
of fall, of his death,
of his attainment of the further point.
With each step he creates the line,
and the air leans against him,
shifts his body minutely.
Lightly the air eddies
as he rows the pole he carries.
It does not seem the rod keeps him there:
we believe him to be buoyed
by our held breath.
The line bows
as he pauses, pushing,
playing the wire like a guitar-string.
He teases us;
and we are, for an instant, his lovers:
love, the high wire he treads.
‘You are only a leap away,’ we whisper.
‘Come. This
step, this one.’
We dare him into our arms.