Like the scalding cup
Of coffee you left
At the brink of the table,

I brim with potential.
I'm bright and unstable
As a just-mopped floor,

I'm a curtain near a candle,
Finger in the door,
A loose axe-handle.

I'm the wrist flicked fast
With no backwards look
Blindly casting

The innocent fishhook.
I'm the toy on the stair,
The hole in the street.

I'm right in plain sight,
I'm under your feet.
I'm over your head:

I've got an edge,
And I hang by a thread.
It's almost time,

And my aim is steady.
You're falling for me,
I feel it. I'm


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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 24 Number 10, on page 29
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