GLENN WILSON

Precipice

 

I stand on an outcrop,

the vain labour of barren ideas

vented upon a sculptor’s block.

 

I cannot chisel for I cannot see

the visage in my mind, the face

of my quarry is yet to reveal itself.

 

I must chip at the epiphany that sits

on my shoulder, till I can turn around,

catch it in a stare, then soar on the words,

 

catch the vents rising from the earth

to the heavens. I retrieve a meteor fragment

from close to the sun, palming it carefully

 

in my hands, till I land and hold it aloft

as a jewel, I climb back up to my precipice

and wait to catch the next zephyr.