December 1, 2021

WITH NO ONE BEHIND YOU, LOOKING ON

You think for the echoing reason that thunder
startles your back, like a cat—wish you knew
where the fire was made.

Think of birds without wings, lazy atoms
in the mountain’s sunlit hair
waiting for sky.

Beyond, black stars bound
to perish in
endlessness. Flesh of time,

the ash-tide slowly
swells. Your pulse
drowns in it.

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