sun-warmed hands and
tongue-warmed teeth;
she chews on a wingless idea,
stilted by an upward momentum.
maybe she doesn’t grow,
but she stretches, expands,
taking entropy with her.
and she knows
(she knows)
that when she’s reached the top,
she’ll be at the bottom,
and the circles
of mind-numbing thought
will bleach her ribs white.