Cantilever Love

This plank, walk, observation
deck of the great Minneapolis
high-rise theatre
reaches out
to the Mississippi
and Saint Paul,
 
Pillsbury’s smokestacks,
so close they are
almost touchable,
the mother/structure,
left behind, sturdy,
 
weight-bearing,
safe. We stand, suspended,
midair, on metal/cement,
cantilevered. So much depends
on what we can’t touch.
 
I reach my face
over the edge, past
glass barriers. Spray
from the great river reaches back.
We almost touch. Tender.
 
Architectural.
I’ve come here in splints,
jerry-rigged,
insupportable.
It’s touching the way
 
the body keeps
trying, the body
built to house the brain,
the brain built to house the senses,
the senses themselves,
 
containment facilities,
at once, restless and
content to flare up,
die out. Some,
in cantilever moods,
 
step out. The sun
fixes itself on the skin
which, in turn, contracts
the way the optic
nerve does. In the dark
 
white jasmine
opens, and exhales.
Hairs in the nose,
tiny cantilevered planks,
reach out to carry
 
the scent
back to the brain.
My tongue, cantilevered
from my mouth,
touches the fine down
 
on the nape of your neck
and lifts
not exactly a flavor
but an idea,
suspended, blindfolded, balanced.
 

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