we
exist
in this divided state
where
what will happen
overtakes
what comes before
we fluctuate
hesitate
stare down long hallways
waiting to turn to stone
the pound of flesh extracted
penitence
does not come quickly
I sit and watch
this being
this being
divided
like a suspended sentence
dangling
midair
a blade
about
to drop
what about the time
we rode on the ferris
wheel
watching the world
turn in our eyes
you discovered
on your arm
a spittle of vomit
from above
some child's sickness
heavy with
turning
worlds
changing places with
sky
I wiped it off your
arm
you said
`most kind of you'
didn't you think
I
would die
didn't you think
I would die
laughing
in your arms
forever airborne
the two of us
even gravity
couldn't bring us down
I tell myself now
it is only a kind of
imprecision
in our lives
that keeps us apart
these things
turnings
blades, wheels
imprecise gestures
abandoning
hope
midair
losing touch
I keep waiting
the blade
to drop
© Jeffrey Round 1991
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