Cliff Jumping

I stood upon the cliff and thought

Of how I loved the smoothed-down stone, the sudden air,

Horizons growing smaller,

Of plunging in until I find and read

The bottom of the river,

The curves and silt.

This will not be my highest cliff, and will not be my last.

I see in dreams the shattered child I once held,

Once felt the heartbeat growing still beneath the gloves that should have stopped

The feeling of the ebb: it takes the slap of stinging water to escape the memory of my hands,

The depth of cut geography among the silt and sand.

This will not be my highest cliff, and will not be my last.