The words of sages

supposedly wise supposedly.


Ancient repackaged as new.


The air choking with nuances amiss and/or askew,

complacencing my view.


The forest floor

thickening under my feet

as I run. (Is this running?

maybe walking. maybe crawling.

maybe breathlessly clawing.)


The impact

folding me in

until I’m sure I can’t be folded

any more.

Cutting in all those places

I don’t want to be cut.

Of course.


Living in hope

of being taken out of this drawer

and being in the understanding.

in the unfolding…