subtext

The stakes pounded down- –
each one selected
by hand, a careful
weighing, a choosing
testing the heft,
the wood’s grain

like muscles stretched
across the tensile
strength of bone.
Each point cut fine,
each sharp enough
to pierce rock’s heart.

Each stout enough
to hold the ropes
taut. The tent’s
canvas stretches
like aged skin or
a membrane protecting.

The tent also protects
from these constellated
beliefs, from the traps
we set for ourselves.
The straining canvas
calms the star’s fury.

The open sky
brings fears scattered
like stars at night:
small troubles
tremble their flames
on the periphery.

The fear, always the fear
weighs down on me – –
not a specific fear
like being eaten by lions
my guts strewn for miles
across wastelands – –

but that too.
Obliteration contends
with deadlines and what
should be said
to the maid:
All creates tension

like the taut canvas
pressuring the tent’s
ridge pole which lifts
against the lines’ pull.
There at the point of
tension, the cusp,

the meniscus,
the waterline
lifting above the glass,
above the edge,
there is life, always
on the edge of collapse.

(1996)