Precipice

Blind eyes burning, 

dry even when wet.

Highland winds whip, 

young bulls seeing red.

Unsettled, unstable,

insurgent serpents, 

Egyptian fables;

the hills writhe from inside.

Earth parts—

not a comb splitting slick hair

rather, a blunt blade forced through frozen margarine

Out of the chaos—

a still small voice says,

“what are you doing here?”

My sneaker soles skid—

How Else Can I Live?

as my toes 

point towards 

the precipice.