Sunshine is frequently crooked

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.