To the present impulse

I am earnest on my precipice.
When I look down, vertigo fills my 
ballast and I am steady. My construction
hands hail me with reverberations: be
more, be less, clad inverness. Feet remember best:
there is no song in scheming, only 
longer dreaming. Awake, I skirt the edge
toward a destiny I will not ply
with fear nor oracular scry.