Alfred Hitchcock had it right.
I can't even look out
the upper floor windows
of Moma without feeling faint,
and so, seeing the picture
she sent me from
the top of her roof
makes me teeter,
even though I'm not the one
leaning over the edge.
This idea that we can
control our own mortality,
a fantasy I cling to,
to keep me from falling in on my own life,
wondering how it is possible
for her to stare down death like she does,
contemplating the unthinkable
when it is all she thinks about all the time,
each time sending out a distress call
to someone like me,
who does know it is not a distress call
until it is too late,
with vertigo plaguing me
the closer she gets to the edge.
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