I cling to the edge
of the roar of a lion,
it’s white-gold edge
like a coast at sunrise.
My feet hang clear
of the quicksand below
as it bubbles and sucks.
I will scramble up
to face the roar,
it’s mountains and valleys,
my breath a sirocco,
my pulse a landslide.
I will hear my calm voice
through the tremor,
a braid of words
like a pulley-cable
to haul myself across
until I fall off
into full noon sunlight,
blinking, my palms
stripped and raw.