I walk on the slant, tilt as if the danger
of being out

of balance were an act of necessary
love, an interval

that explores how being
upright is possible—

Here nerve is
in extremity, a craze, a small crack

in the surface, like the scurrying
of ants.

Its hot flight, its embroideries, its hollows
make clear the falling

off:  minute notches fail to keep.
Then, the soul has

no period, no end, only brackets and parentheses
for damage.  The difficulty—

so hard, then, to hold.  Lately sprung,
the light.