Stop yourself
with the ice ax.
You’re glissading,

snow sliding. But
you have your ax.
Jump off your pony.

Let him take
the hurdle. Sorrow
assaults you

like boys who
knock girls down
to gravel.

Drop the ball.
Fall on it. Parts
of the ceiling

plunge through
gold light.
Yes, you fall.

You are falling.
The blue guitar
topples. The big

bowl of oranges.
Light summer clothing.
The sweetbriar rose.