on the Timing of a Breath
A party of teetering, giggling drunks
decide to stroll along a cliff edge.
But nobody falls. What couldíve been,
wasn't. Good news. Very good news.
Or, not news at all. Every day
things donít happen that mightíve:
dizzying non-events, so numerous,
buzzing like bumped nests of could bees.
If you have any comments on this poem, Seth
Crook would be pleased to hear from you.