When you were a kid you pretended
to be blind—closed your eyes, held a stick
out in front, suddenly weightless, thick
as invisible air, unable to step
where moments before there was no wall.
Now the wall at the edge of the world stinks
of dead leaves, dog feces, sounds like cold links
of swing sets in the park where fall
was bright collage bits until you felt
compelled to be blind. Now you’re stuck
out on the limb of intention, telling
yourself to move forward while the suck
of breath in your chest unearths your heart lightly
as a stone raised by the roots of a tree.