In suspense.
Tethered taut
as a present possibility
between past and future,
between puppet and angel.
Gathered into the torn tension
of momentum and calling.
Mortal in eternity,
our cracked fragility,
endures the stress, straining.
What longing-calling,
voice of eternity,
could dare us,
and bring us to dare,
the crossing?
Eternity’s pure whole notes –
somehow heard –
disclose our infirmity.
Restless, unfinished, incomplete,
despair tears us
from our security.
With such poised patient passion we must proceed across –
balancing an unscored ballet,
an improvised dance –
with a terrible glance to the precipice,
still we venture forth.
Over the crevasse,
quivering,
the dangling suspension bridge:
the crying chords arch across,
trembling,
the slatted planks,
in the wind swaying,
and far below,
far, far below,
in the darkness gnashing,
the froth is rushing.