Image courtesy of incandescenttarrot.com

The Fool

The fool pauses on the precipice of a word.
He surveys the great blue.
It’s cloudy today. Perhaps tomorrow
he’ll write a poem
about flying.
Today must be rooted
in dirt.

Step after step after step,
the fool descends.
It’s been eons
since he left the summit.
He’s not sure any longer
he’s ever been there, on top of the word.
He’s not sure if this
meandering path leads anywhere,
if he still has a dog,
if the wilted rose in his hand
has maintained its mysterious purpose.
But he’s a fool, so he does
what fools or lovers or even
poets do: he keeps

walking on air, the wings
under his feet opening, closing
without a sound—
like shutters, like palms
shielding a reader’s eyes,
as she watches the inevitable unfold
i n s l o w m o t i o n,
her wide-open mouth bursting
with silence.