There is neither edge nor precipice;
nor slide, nor knowable fall.
There is only bottom.
Lack makes itself known
abruptly, not losing or loss.
There is only nothing, suddenly.
There is neither flight nor flying
nor slipping away into airlessness;
there is no drag or drain, no
low warning, no looming alarm.
There is only bottom and nothing.
Ron. Lavalette is primarily a poet living in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, land of the fur-bearing lake trout and the bilingual stop sign. He has been widely published, both online and in print. A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO. Ron. blogs at: SCRAMBLED, NOT FRIED .
Your One Phone Call 
I hate to say I relate to this in a “what’s it all about, Alfie” way. On Appraisal all I can say is that you’re too young to be in that poem.
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Sometimes, Mr. L, you take my breath away. Not meant as a pun, because not being able to breathe is dreadful scary; but this, jeeze, dis is good…
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