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Poem: Kaaterskill Falls 

The man who wore dress shoes to his death
hadn’t planned it that way.
But with the roar of the falls in his ears,
the right shoes might have seemed
a minor consideration if one at all.
The narrow muddy path above the rocks
offered no opinion though the facts suggest
a bias towards descent. A whim is a whim.
We have to admire the man’s insouciance,
to credit the quicksilver leap of spirit that chose
against all prudence the falls cascading
like Rip’s long beard. Not even the dress shoes
make this news though we read it in the news.
It’s the airy freefall of his plummet we want
reported—the split second of fatal cognition
that all bonds to earth were broken
as he fell to the rocks below.

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