5 of 5 in a series
Years later when you pass steep stair wells,
empty elevator shafts gaping black
and bottomless, wood chippers gnashing,
train tracks vibrating invisible math—
distance over time equals
there’s a jolt and your feet
slip, leap, attach however briefly
to nothingness, to one
unsheathed flash of it before
you catch yourself,
straighten your coat, laugh
for the stranger who sits
in your blind spot,
finger on the trigger.
Laura Gregory likes to aim high.