Spaces are opening around me and I have my head down,
watching my feet make prints in the snow, sliding in the mud, watching the
trail of discard behind me.
I am not running, but I am rushing. Hollow, and dull, the
ideas come they just don’t thicken.
I need arrowroot, cornstarch, cream of tartar, flour.
Something to gum up, give weight to my mass.
She rolls and I quiver.
I want to sit quietly and work reverently.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Don’t give up yet or it won’t count.
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