Tight-Rope

Poised between the sea and sky,

Those who neither swim nor fly

If they stumble, needs must die.

Moving on a rope of sand

From hidden land to hidden land,

With emptiness on either hand-

Nothing to clutch, nothing to save,

Nothing for crutch, or staff, or stave-

Only this fearful arc they have.

Madness to face the deep abyss,

(God! How the hungry waters hiss!)

Yet more intolerable this

Immensity of space and light,

Cold, clear, and mercilessly bright,

Converging on the hapless plight

Of one with no geometry,

Sextant, nor sure astronomy,

For tangents which might set him free!

Fosephine Johnson