Correcting for Apogee

the wind yelps. the edges snag. farther still. the terrible numbness of how spoils in her fists. fingers like curdled milk. palms like stale bread. the hunger is the feast. on the long road between then and now.

moments wear her. a patchwork of choices. time's boney skeleton struts. an arrogant emperor in yesterday's tattered rags.

it's not far. it's always there. a pushpin in the thick of life. gathering the miles. in long gowns and confetti stolen from sweat.

we never name the small places where we go when we're lost. corners in the choke of the math. as if we are counting down . always have been. to an impossible end.

our voices drowning in the thrist of division. our bodies weakwith the pull of subtraction.

chasing the sun. in a controlled panic. clay wings pretend to fly. stone feet try to remember what it is to run.

gravity laughs. distance weeps. and we are dust.