The fool’s dog’s sharp yip
is not dire enough
to ward off the fall
into the canyon’s echo.
Is it worth the death,
this life? The timidity
to make an attempt
is inlaid as context.
The sun sets in context
of a new risen dawn.
The view of other’s views
block vision’s sole vista.
What’s left is improvised—-
each day a blurred whirl,
simulating a design,
as the dance continues
teetering along an edge,
one leg in the air.
(October 25, 2025)
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