I know your pose, your shadow draped on the rails,
Leaning to the air that will not catch you
But, parting, shows siren-like and beckons
Your silhouette to a gusty doom—
Though in this game,
With damage turned off,
You can leap from mountains without dying
And play the jester to the windy sprites
Rattling by,
Yet my breaths here looking on
Are full of ornament and unrest,
As if a harder thought
Would push you careening over
And feed you to the trailless sun
In pieces ripped or waves blushing
Like scrolls of visible turbulence
Flowered—
