Constantly risking absurdity

                                    and death

whenever he performs

   above the heads

of his audience

   the poet like an acrobat

     climbs on rime

     to a high wire of his own making

and balancing on eyebeams

above a sea of faces

    paces his way

      to the other side of the day

performing entrechats

     and sleight-of-foot tricks

and other high theatrics

and all without mistaking

any thing

for what it may not be


   For he's the super realist

       who must perforce perceive

   taut truth

    before the taking of each stance or step

   in his supposed advance

toward that still higher perch

where Beauty stands and waits

       with gravity

       to start her death-defying leap


And he

       a little charleychaplin man

      who may or may not catch

   her fair eternal form

spreadeagled in the empty air

      of existence