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Hanging like a late autumn leaf
      like a falling snowflake in an updraft
      like a loose tooth
      like the one remaining chance
I think I see the ground.
I hope it's there below my feet.
I know it cannot catch me
      it has no arms
      it has no intention of lending hands.
I think it is hard like thick dried mud
      like scraping pavement
      like cold smooth ice
      like what I've known it to be
      before.
I think I see the ground.
I hope it's there below my feet.
I think it's not so far below now,
      like anticipation, worry, desire, angst--
      it waits. I wait for it to break
      my fall, it waits to break me.
Slowly I let go of my hold
      like a desparate climber at the edge
      of a cliff holding on with his fingertips
      I lift one at a time, daring gravity
      to tear me down--slowly
Down to the ground I think I see,
the one I hope--and fear--is there below my feet.

C

 


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