a scrap of writing that needs to be written but not kept



this is me running uphill, streaming
the wind, hair in rivers behind me this is me
escaping the greatness of the canyon I have built
with its tiny crevices full of insects that have taken home and come
uninvited but not necessarily unwanted, this is me forgiving
rock for its weight, its pretense of stability, for landslides
for a typical contribution to geography This is me
silent when I move, cutting the air to my shape bending
the atmosphere to my will, silent trail of dust, you
behind me.




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