A man hangs by his elbow, not trusting
His hands alone to keep him from falling.
He’d call the Eiffel Tower his calling —
Brushing to prevent it from rusting —
Sixty tons of paint every seven years.
I’ve been to the top in spite of my fears.
My vertigo let me look out, not down.
Just this photograph unstrings me.
I can’t imagine standing on the crown
Without losing my ability to be.
Yet, men dangled from such heights to build
It —
iron and rivet.
One man was killed.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
No comments:
Post a Comment