On the edge of a precipice, can I ask you a question, softly,
phrased just so to evoke no more than a break of your lips?
I practiced, I fretted for three months now specifically, and more generally
for the past year. Practice culminates in the crafted performance
of a simple inquiry, defying the risk on deep cracks in the ledge;
I sundered the two between us with my weight alone.
Yes is a hand. The valley below is dim
but familiar; I’ve grown not to fear
the fall nor the landing.