Itís on the (minor) way back
of hand, from putting onto shelf,
into fridge, that other things like bowls
of sentimental value and
delicate target jugs get brushed,
teeter and fall four feet for
a long time because it is their fate
and smash despite the last-second
manoeuvrings of our feet because
we are not the prehensiles we were.
It is on the minor way
back down mountain, in the failing
light after a great success
against the summitís champagne
sky, on the long col between
achieving and rest, in the gullies
of infrangible rock strung with
snow at its most dark-apparent,
that we slip hurtle and die.
Happened on the minor way back.