we lurk in the shadows
of metaphors, and waltz
with words (the blank
white space before this
line is the distillation
of the words on the
page). white is the purity
of our thoughts in which the
black words stain. we wrap
our intentions in images and
grotesque images do not
appear here, like
the foot: that awkward hand-
resembling body part, arched
in some reluctant embrace
with the sooty (or sterile)
ground. it lives its underground
life, divorced from sunlight,
or naked without inhibition.
it belongs there, and not on
paper. yet we forget that
on life's tightrope,

we walk only with our feet.