here we are, contortionists all
twisting ourselves into odd shapes
for the boss for the boyfriend
for strangers on the street
true from untrue which one
knows the difference?
the one in the mirror
the one outside
the space in between
them might not be so vast
or else it’s a chasm
a view from the tip of the
circus tent. like a high wire
act of nebulous balance,
a daily tiptoeing the
delicate line between
known self

(a tiny point)

and emptiness lying beneath.