of fatigue, of frost
of taking right turns
around the same block for days
for the Memory of a Birthday dying
the mechanism of every second pulling you in uncountable directions. the progress of spinning in place, the trek through the same footprints you’ve worn into memory—and then you open your eyes
There is no Flash Gordon, only this space
ship swiveling back and forth in an arena
of stars that are not stars but pixels flickering,
an illusion of movement.
my horns branch and splinter and
i don’t have it in me
to call them antlers.
He couldn’t say what had started it. The still openness between the walls and the floor and his body? The howls from the Antarctic wind outside? The knowledge that his heart was the only human one beating more than a hundred kilometers out?