Poem

my guts itch
keep trying to put my head back on straight 
so used to riding the rat’s nest
like a raft this
quiet is making me ill.

texture on skin
says
we succumb, 
been doing the same thing for
too long.

i used to think i’d wake up and 
the mountains would be moved
once clockwise on earth’s crust
because doesn’t time refuse to wait
for anyone?
and that horizon that watched us get taller
will one day be shorter than a nail sliver
overshadowed by a moon
that wants to consume it.

but i learned that
mountains run,
and they are not slow.
you will get tired
of tracking them.

people will keep saying
there is no future:
the horizon will stop
paying you mind.

and all the while
you will keep waking up
and wiping the dust
from your eyes
and out of your mouth
by and by.

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