toeing

Dancing on a knife's edge, not knowing
where to tread; gently, softly, spreading
butter on bread —
finding silence in the noise, holding
tongues accountable in the voice
of old pines swaying against palms
that catch the most wind; miens
neither facing the rising moon,
nor chasing the glancing sun,
dawning upon dreams of white
washed gates keeping out off-white tangents
that beam into a field of that runs
with neither hot nor cold streams