What vantage but depth? Barefoot,
You took your place at the balcony edge
and looked out: the dewed city slept;
no cars crept on streets, no pedestrians
walked. Leveraged at forty feet up,
You saw a past that pushed you to this precipice.
O melodrama of drop:
one terminal love and sundry damages
demand an unwitnessed descent,
a pure y-axis plummet with an end
that meant love could be retired,
shed like clothing, unkept. You waited,
planning pain’s abandonment,
and stared over blank building-tops. Below sat
a welcome mat of pavement.
You stole a glance back
inside the apartment.
was your wife, her drowsy mouth
widening to the open O of witness
She rushed despair
of impacted asphalt;