If I should jump or fall from this high place
so late at night and close to these chaotic waves
would I, like gull or osprey are, be borne aloft
on winds I neither know nor see; be born again
to soar toward light that rises but does not shine
or would the fall and fog-enveloped night be all?
I dare not sit too long and contemplate the odds.
Instead, I try to find a little light and ink enough
to weigh the possibilities; afraid of bed, afraid
that in the morning I’ll forget the words and lines
and breaks, afraid to take what fragile little peace
there is in knowing what I cannot ever truly know.