I try the leaves are circling my tread-bare tires blowing around like a crowd rushed in proclaiming “wait” and “go” and “what” and “we are all here” there is a certain shade of rose fog on the mountains reading me the chapters of epochs ending and I do not want to hate so I go out to breathe in lungfuls, pen in hand and document: the flavor of the burn the stars that swim when I stand up the deadening of my eyes but I don’t cough and you tell me I am wrong about the fog, the source, the way it moves through me the way I move though it you tell me it is only ever either night or day and you tell me always/never do you know? I would burn down everything to see my horizons again to feel the morning dew in my own mind do you know? I would write my oaths into my skin in flowers and not care how you judge them