A small thing.
Out of play, or spite, the crossing
of a line no one saw, a slight—
imagined or real—a single hairline
crack. At first, a bruise, a smart,
built-up pressure beneath
pushing edges apart.
Some space, some denial, some bandaging.
Family resumes as before.
The mark fades.
Out of nowhere,
another unexpected collision,
this time, more severe. Cracks reappear,
the fissure opens, edges widening,
too far to bridge
with practised panacea.
What was caged is now freed,
a fatal breach.
Years of silence.
Standing on the rooftop ledge,
forty-six floors above street level,
balancing, arms outstretched—
twenty centimetres forward is sleep;
standing motionless is remaining awake.
You feel the wind rise,
close your eyes,
the dream catches you.