Today is my birthday; sixty-eight in words.
They mean less now
than when numbers were the cold, hard play of my youth;
I could make them dance in my head.
No rule says I can't still dance,
feel the power of the machine in my skull,
though it runs differently now,
not falling left or right,
keeping heel to toe.
I'll fall when I'm ready:
on the razor's edge.
But it's my birthday and I'm on the new side of midnight.
I'm tired, ready to find an edge to sleep on.
I do talk of edges.