and windows have certainties. Fireflies
make cold light on warm evenings.
I let go of designations that end futures.
The next epoch will be kinder. I am a spaceship
dreaming of landing on Mars, conveying the hopeful.
I was a woman without heels who could only roll swiftly
downhill. Inclines require assistance, power or knowledge.
Curb cuts are too steep. Strength is best bent. Sentience is not a gift
when you are stuffed in a box, braying and crying for
a red release or green expanse. I track dust and mud prints
on shiny floors and yearn for a wise trajectory. Travesties
are too soon forgotten. Clouds obscure as does fog
but weather is local until it’s not. Finitude can comfort
or constrain. This too shall pass. Scarcity is a falsehood of imprisonments.
Skidmarks are signs of consumption. Shred, repurposed, dispossessed,
this is how I’m made useful.
