Mike falls to the ground
compressing his body,
absorbing all of his 180 pounds
on his toe tips.
Is compassion a thought or a do?
Or is it just a bee sting since the bee doesn't need
poison only for the purpose of stinging?
I let go of my rope,
its hard memory now
burned into my skin.
I smell singed peanuts.
Willed to prevent horror,
form four blisters. White is
the color of waiting.
Waiting for the present in the heart's inner space,
Waiting for an anticipated plummet.
The facts are usually arrayed in such
a manner that that there is significance
and meaning in all of them.
I shake them loose,
convulsing in daggers.
Now it is true that the eye is present in a very
mysterious way in bee poison.
A supervisor runs up the stairs,
asking what went wrong.
All I know is that
facts do not become the truth
until you love them.
Later, my soft fingers encased in peas,
the frozen plastic little solace
to my failed belay.
I drive home in Mike's Band-Aids,
using only my pinky and thumb,
wondering if Mike thinks that
the quality of mercy is not strain'd,
it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
upon the place beneath.