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of the precipice
I wonder how long
my white-knuckled grip
can hold.
A hand extends,
my fingers link to hers
and hold as my body slides
onto the undulating, humming
aurora that assures
the earth spins round.
Looking for what was,
maybe is, a life,
I ask her,
“do I, did I have one?”
She assures me I’ll see it soon,
connected, twining, sharing
never before or again the same.
She entitles me
to interact with spirits
that weave into a wrap
scraps from every source,
edges integrating
to hold me tight
in the globe of self.
Gravity will never let me go
to a bottomlessness
of not knowing.
She steeled my grip at the edge
to know that, yes, I was a life.
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