with razorrunning precision
I navigate a precipice peering
at the fall on either side
slowly calculating the likelihood
that the fruity flesh in the arches of my feet
will deliver me towards an expedient decision
like long division on my fingers
my insides feel as though a sudden conference had been called
and it has been decided that any excess be efficiently swept away
to make room in case emotional acrobatics become necessary
like a deer, I have almost convinced myself that if I stand still enough
breath the shallowest whisperbreaths
cease the flutter of eyelashes, flyaways, and anticipation
that everything might go unnoticed
and yet it seems like the aching antithesis of what I am
to let motion and thought fade from my skin like snow in sun