Sara Blake
The Fall
Poem

Too heated or fast,
and its edges would ignite,
creeping embers that could eat
clean through its still young
and unstable structure,
slowly and unnoticed
until your outstretched hand
met only ash.

Too cool and its surface
would be slick
and hostile—
black ice that had
no vested interest in your
sincere wish to remain
on your two feet.

But then again,
too many engineers
on the case
paid no respect
to its wild nature.
And it soon became clear
the only thing to do
was watch it become
what it would.

Nor were the scientists
of any remarkable favor
with the shades of its language.
Their proscriptions, though many,
seemed unable to apply
to this particular current.

It was not tidy either,
making a hypocrisy of patience
requesting pause and space
with words, but demanding
closeness and now
with all the beats


between



the



lines.