Palm roughs for the flick of a coin,

you are an open-hand rattler

hollowing out the air’s stiff grains.

Moving autumn with your wake,

you walk roads of names you long

to remember, curving at the places to

go back, ghosting lambent beneath

smoky hills. Big sky knocks birds

from the trees as if the aches in you

explode out the woolen stiff of

your hand; fingers pass lonely from

tipsy sloshes of a cup, yet holding

back the thirst that will bitter through

the bone and bloat. Shelter ghosts

on sturdy spine, you run to the soft

gray edge some miles out, hold onto to

ohms of someone else’s nocturnes,

running away, running towards

the well-lit dim of you running into

a sunset, sucked for air like a locked

click, your flight in the instant’s damp.

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