That balance they all talk about
In theory I step off the train
and over the edge of everything--
as if I slipped off the side of day
skirting its commerce and its angles:
the efficient which was there
while here the moon--
here tomato vines, frogsong, devotion:
the yearned-for end
of the thin steep plank
whose fulcrum is the turnstile.
Here I am all plain flesh,
curved like the real.
Not but I will slide back
tomorrow down the countertilt
into the capitalized World
where I am easier to measure,
an expert in the angles
of ambition.
If I remember commerce
among the curving vines, I will not
let on--will not let shrink
the distance to the turnstile
lest devotion weigh too slight
against the world.
All the weight of my yearning
is here (in theory)--I ride the tilt
only to use the world to build
my distance from it, distance
to make the moon weigh more than
my ambition--
though to a measurer of angles
the world is real as yearning is to flesh.
Each pulls me from one end
of day to the far other:
it is heavy, it must be paid
in its reverse.




Cyd Harrell, 2002. All rights reserved.
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