Ruminate as a weapon, transport. 

Scuffling stones massage my soles. 

The fazed heavy reverie of I am 

sloughing through memory. Double-

edged face: I am walking on 

something’s femur, salt-choked trench. 

Silent heat that doesn’t steam. Green 

are my freckles, the beetles behind 

my eardrums. Slick whispers against 

my calves, afforestation alcove 

exhuming sea-breath atop a 

doppelgänger baseball cap. I insist 

I can fly. The little breakings: lucid 

buckling, leaf. When my feet disappear, 

the boulders morph into frozen dirt, the 

birches part. Palms on mossy sandpaper. 

Like the delay of nova, I reach for a 

blue or gray curve. Shuck, overstated 

scrape. The sky’s awfully shy today, 

at least from below a faux canopy. 

I am mired and laughing only 

with my hands.