tipping the scales at half past a vanishing point to an argument
we’re like a tribe of unbridled huckleberries, spoiling for a jam.
but then… we lose the wind to a terrible storm far beyond our sphere
and labor overmuch to assuage the curdled grommet
of our foisted  appeal to an unvoiced fear.
we slip into our rainbows and swim unfettered until a wing breaks
to sing an anthem to gravity’s callous law. gobsmack in the perilous nativity
of your awkward alliance with the Mystery that conceived you-
as a Lost Boy.

you’re always the Beforeigner.

So Now.

So Now.

So Now.