toes curl
gripping rock through shoe and moss
pressing brief bones against a plunge of denseness
my tongue tastes endurance
more feeling than looking
then up, inevitably
up into the great whatever
not into riddles or faded histories of starlight
catching yesterday’s plasma
high flies
against the big black fullness
high flies
rippling daggers slice the empty
this point a singularity
under it all
holding on to nothing
holding nothing in
until the next point is less than something
nothing is left
but the rock
the sky
and me
David Trudel © 2014
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