Across The Line

That line —
the one you’ve always told yourself
you’d never cross —
is right there
in front of your toes.

On the side you’re on
there’s nothing but shit
and sand.  On the other,

food and water: no banquet
but there’s enough there to hold you together
once you’re back on your side,
and to give you the strength
to stay away from the line
in the future.

When you tell yourself
it’s ok to step over
as long as you don’t erase it,
you realize
you’ve already begun to erase it.

Perhaps the problem you’re having
is the line?  Perhaps
it’s not so much that
there’s a line as it is
that there should be lines at all?

Maybe the truth is
that the problem is
not the line,
but your desire to wipe out
your footprints
so that you can tell yourself
it never happened, so you can tell yourself
no one will ever know you were here?

That’s really a question for the vultures
who are already circling
to answer.  Ask them,
why don’t you?  I think they’ll tell you
they’ll take you
wherever they find you.