Do I dare myself to write this poem,
To commit these feelings to word spread on paper
Open and no longer hidden
In the swirling of a solitary mind.
Let the blades of the fan stop moving;
Pull out the plug, long enough, to allow this with her.
Do I dare to take the risk of looking down from this great height
Knowing that every time I have looked before from this room
Soon after the view has turned into crushed broken and awkward remains
Jutting from the earth like an ancient ruin.
I write because I have dared myself
Like a child to another
Not to step on the crack,
I write because it is fall now and the leaves are turning yet again on the trees
Turning to reds yellow ashes and seed.
I write because I could have died in my feverish sleep this past week but I lived and she lived with me
The risk too great for her not to come.
So I prepare my wetsuit to dive one more time into this wreck
No longer willing to be a pawn
In what has become a parrot-like garden game
On a plastic card table
A wild horse corralled in a stable.
~ November, 1983