The pressure builds unevenly when pestered
toward that most masculine habit of leaving
after so much hacking have you mastered
the art and craft of avoiding the air you breathe?
But wait, consider where and what you are
not a gazelle being smelled by any lion
the danger of the dawn, the threat of star
come flighty from a nightly fear of dying.
If an angel dark and wan were to appear
with the gift of answer for your worries
pouring the pure solution into your ear
what words might cure your constant hurry?
That courtier of a heaven warm and senseless
that sterile servant dancing on the fence says,
“Today is a child fallen off tomorrow’s ladder.
Pick her up, hold her, and kiss it better.”