Over the edge III

The edge is right there -
I can feel it with my feet,
eyes closed the wind is a
knife to skin and frost
breathed-in.  There is no end
to the pour - it spills out of
every orifice, a never-ending
rush of pain, like rain
from heaven except this well
roots straight down
in hell, that place of the
crying heart and no
balm for the burn.

I can look out of the window
and feel the edge take my
feet down:  some kind of
parallel dimension where I am
simultaneously sitting
on my settee reading and
falling into the black abyss
feet cut from the edge, fingers
frost-bitten and black.

Just accept the back, the
way, the strung-out road -
no sand grain on eternity's
beach reaches perfection:
power is limited by armreach
	so what

if a grain's best is not
good enough?  In whose
sieve?  If there is nothing left
to give how can it not be
	its own due - death
is so easy and the stomach-drop
as one lets go and dives
into open air is the only
real thing when
there is no soft place to land
	and bones
do not like hard, rushing ground.

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