blue buttered biscuits
floating fluttering flittering
rustled red leaves dance
branches creak back a crack
 
billowing bellows above the bedrock
slide along the slim slipstream
staking resistant beams
of our inward thoughts
 
my face in the wind
your face in the wind
your hair whipping the islet of your forehead
our coats blown open as parachutes
 
lean against pushing
lean into the next foothold
toward the sun
toward the tiny tinsel of tomorrow
 
rushing earward air
the passing of a train
or convertible highway ride
religiously renewing the reminder
 
that stilted stillbirth stillness
an oppressively quiet suffocation
is far worse than this wind
to struggle is to be alive

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