We tried to swing our legs over crusts of the moon
beyond atmospheres but below the concept of edges.
Retreating back to the ocean floor to little we understand,
blind arms waving like kittens brawling or kites
whipping above smoking sand.
I purchased the book as a gift and I am sorry I read it.
Creased pages and bent spines I do things
I don’t mean and say the similar;
express trains crawl by and we refuse
to read the final pages.
There’s the mattress, and the dresser, the
Argentinian man in the corner who doesn’t
borrow but grabs the world tightly
gripping what’s so lovely and loved —
I will give you the book one day to read the
timeline of a Wisconsin winter that hadn't
to remind me but stuck like a layer
of skin on a bitter telephone pole.
We collect shorts and speakers humming.
Legs are moving between the beats
between entry ramps and natural bridges
of logs and stones before the steel.
And, so I ran.
With my eyes closed above the
wood-laden limbs and over the corner
of the earth only to feel responsible
for every single moment of my life.