Life is so short—
and death
is so sure,
that I
suddenly cannot take another step.
In my
huge cement boots—
which I always seem to wear now,
regardless of whether
there's snow on the ground
in twenty first
century Chicago or not—
for fear of the echo
of my next tremendous footfall
sending ripples—though all
of cruel time and violent space,
in every wasted direction at once.
Somebody
help. Quick,
I feel so
petrified.
I feel so heavy. And small. Please,
I cannot move at all.
Not at all. Or I'm liable to fall.
And I know
this sounds crazy, but I'm one
hundred percent certain,
if I slip—
that Rome—
will fall.
