Sea-level. Our world at a right angle.
Train your view; find in four hundred
feet of whitened face, a black spread-eagle,
half-way from swell to sparse pine rim.
Toes and fingers stretch for fissures,
caress the geology, hopeful seek
from each nub, crevice, sill and spur
enough inconsistency to anchor.
In that speck of concentration -
to us no more than drop in the ocean
of better judgements - the wedged gravity
of mind complete unto itself.
Chalk bag and quickdraw, crimp and undercling:
I envy the nerve, would belay
between overhangs, traverse the crux of it,
to become as you wish to seem.
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