Upon the precipice

I stand

The highest

(all the farther to fall my dear)

of the series




as useless

on the pinnacle

of a precipice

as guardrails

(light dawns)

Logically speaking, the milk and honey (affluence, dear, affluence)

Before me and the inferno (obscurity, dear, obscurity) are equidistant

From triangle ABC and the cosine of 39.5, not taking into account of

Course the religious symbolism in The Brother’s Karamazov or the

Weather patterns of the central Atlantic

(doubt being comprised not of tempests, dear, but of doldrums)

Hereupon I awaken to the familiar flannel warmth of argyle indecision and crocheted indifference.