A long bridge of books and paper
spans the gorge. You have gone
ahead and vertigo is a hand clasped
round my ankle, with the gravity of flesh
suspended in air. Old books
are roped together. Their hard spines
dig into my soles. The side ropes
are the papier-mache of bad
poems. A heart worn on a sleeve.
At my first launch I left behind a
layer of skin. On my hands the scent
of words. It has rained lately, and now
the wind bites. Your back is almost
out of view. I want to sit down –
a small huddle in the swinging air –
and let the paper decompose and dry
to scatter on the wind. Vertigo climbs
me hand over hand. I have not looked
down to see the roaring chasm nor up
to the eucalypt sky. Across are the rocks
of Cataract Gorge. I follow my eyes
along the backs of my hands, knees
abraded by each volume’s edge. There you
are at the other side, shrinking the distance.
From GDS #14
