My fear is a flight pattern.
It circles and rides the updrafts.
I want these stars, all they swallow
along the valley: the firs,
backlit by the full-moon rise,
the bay simmering under its height,
my own tight-breathed anticipation,
whispered gust of autumn.
I want all this carrying.
That moon could be my head, scythed,
mirroring in a long, sustained manner.
My exoskeleton is heavy. I will suffer its loss.
My scattering is a hanging cry, an abrupt
transition, a door into the mountain.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.
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