the aerialist

I climb the pole, slick shaft of steel,

with trembling limbs, heart a-drum;

watchers gasp their breath

to see me so high

this small circus platform shimmies

and shakes hard beneath my feet;

my blood is ice yet

I must not look down

muttering masses on the ground

hope for fear and feats of skill;

covertly do they

long for blood and bone

I fill my lungs, then send my hand

reaching out through open air;

toward my gilded dreams

toward the bright trapeze

eight long feet out and miles away

is that far suspended bar,

it draws my eyes so

I do not glance down

I look to the harsh lights above

and release my ragged breath,

then murmur magic and

ready my resolve

I put my trust in the arcane

science of trajectory;

bodies in motion,

physics of flying

eyes on my prize, I tense and leap

arcing towards the bright trapeze,

how high am I and

far must I now fall