Not a goat at all
Balance is a discipline. The rock I lean into—
discipline. Lacquered with ice it’s tempting
to fear the face of it, but I have expert grip
and pant a warm atmosphere that muffles me.
Lose nerve and it deflates. The one about
how all love stories are ghost stories
stirs memory of a white goat
scaling a stone pitch as if floating
in the yellow prescience of autumn.
Its sure-footed poise just adaptation.
Birth luck.
The work of water wears rock
and soaks canals of dreams
my thought body—a perfect
vehicle—manoeuvers, though I wake fraught
and imperfect, all hinges whining.
The dream is like new ice, though, slippery
and melting. Me, scrabbling to maintain it.