Since first encountering it

in a set of self-paced

reading-enhancement lessons

imbedded in my fourth-grade

curriculum, I have disliked

the word precipice, perhaps

because it sounds kind of like

preciousness, both words that

speakers of robust Anglo-Saxon

frankly just don’t need, or

maybe because of some

unconscious fears of its

intellectual portents, its

unwelcome insinuation

that inhabiting a figurative precipice

might be as close to

living on the edge as

I will ever get, like playing

punk on the ’cello, not

that there’s anything

wrong with that.


Copyright 2016

T. Allen Culpepper


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