Precarious

One could say that about all our lives,

as uncertain as a May fly’s,

seemingly immortal when we’re young,

everyone feels that way, coming in to

a fresh body, well endowed with strength,

partying all night and working all day…

we see others taking chances;

a selfie on a cliff,

outrunning the police.

We think we’re immune

until we walk into an airplane propeller

because we’re not paying attention.

Lately, I haven’t been able to forget

that I’m made of flesh and blood,

a machine that wears out, runs down.

The algorithm reaches its conclusion.

Only a few are able to see continuity 

of the discontinuity; the eternity 

hidden within the mechanism.

“In the spring the chrysanthemum’s

astringent fragrance comes revealing

the hidden mechanism of machine

within machine within machine.” 

Wallace Stevens

We all walk the tightrope, like the

little Frenchman, even though the

Twin Towers are no more; the poem

that killed three thousand, a surprise,

a shock; he moved between the towers

with confidence…he didn’t fall.

Then, the towers fell,

as if they were us.