Do you wonder if that small crack is in you still?

Golden little lightning that zips down your throat,

that reaches those thin, fresh roots around and back.

Mountains on mountains echoing one another,

all blue in the blue light looking back at you

from one of your other selves.

Could you slip back into one of those bodies?

Dusty sun running down an unfamiliar road,

still one you can’t name but know on repeat.

The corpse of a wild dog slowly decomposing,

always sad, always fascinating, turned to bone.

A wild call to the water gleaming, and how far can you go?

How far can you go?

None of it looks happier than it was, than it is now.

But it is absence, the delicious suffering, the greatness of feeling,

the lack of household and the pleasure of Not Yet.

More to lose, less to have and ahead—vast, unfettered, uncertain.

She speaks to me still when I hear certain songs,

when the grass smells warm in late fall,

when the sand on the road won’t settle.

She’s ghost like, living quietly until

Twirl, twirl, twirl. Blood pumping.

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