On the Precipice

I feel like a bohemian
diametric and opposed
to scales,
balancing on
uneven bars trying to
maintain some sort of footing.

Arterial winds gust
full of questioning crimson
and hibiscus doubts,
to where does the wind sail
like a nomadic thought,
never looking west or
showing its face.

Everything is coming up clover,
spilling like ants upon a crystal table,
here light turns plum and
when you decipher ink
the words are lost.

Edges fall from a window
like balloons downward
sinking like a weather vane,
the compass is ajar and teetering
on a ledge.

That time falls cannot be questioned
gravity allows no touch,
it is mute like air and swelling
like puffy cheeks.

The day is unwinding like a clockmaker
marking its margins with chimes
and mischievous laughter,
hold on to whatever you can grab,
tomorrow will not stay still.

Kevin Harling