When you stand on the ledge
six stories above the street,
you are perhaps lost, but
there is not a lot a map can tell you.
There is back in the window,
and there is down.
What is it that keeps you
from jumping.
You wouldn’t even need to jump.
Just trip. Lean. Step. Or if you sneeze,
it could be considered an accident.
Somehow easier that way to imagine it,
but how to explain the fact that you
climbed through the pane
out onto the railingless edge.
Someone would have to clean up
the splatter. That thought
is enough to hold you here,
back against the brick.
It’s not that you want to die.
Below, the cars crisscross and merge.
But how to go on living.
Beneath you the ravens weave.