The Cliff

While you were afraid to fall

I dove off the side,

cascading down along the

smooth, white limestone wall

into the pitiless and pitiful ocean.

And while you searched endlessly

for me, worrying about me

drowning, sinking, or futilely wading

in this postlapsarian sea,

I built a boat —

I built a boat of clouds and solitude,

with a mast of mist and oars of paper,

with a crew of sandmen

and a map of unrecognizing and fleeting stars.

And as I sailed across eternity,

I could see you atop that

simple cliff, watching your silent figure,

in awe and in vain,

I could see you and your

translucency with clarity;

I could see the wings you had,

The wings I used to have:

Where there was formerly a tie

to light, to air and the mark of bliss,

Where I found instead now,

an emptiness upon my spine.

So as I moved my calloused

hands across my bare skin,

I thought I was doomed,

I thought I had been cast off —

And then I was free.