There’s nothing to it.
From a dead stop run like you do from every vow,
but gauging each step and hefting a twenty-foot pole
in your hands. At full speed ram the butt in the box,
and leap, leaning back to let the accumulated force
and the pole’s arc fling you higher than the second-story
window you jumped from when your lover’s husband
kicked in the bedroom door; and in an arc as graceful
as a dancer’s tour en l’air, push it back as you pause,
a matador poised over the horns of the bull,
then fall into the foam as the nervous bar trembles.
Photo By: gnosis/ john r