We’re in the middle of
somewhere – landlocked
greens in gradients vining along
the edges.

When the end of the earth
was tangible
toes hanging from the
cusp of crust and then
outward just air
just space
just something else,
I would have taken you somewhere.
If my lungs weren’t drowned
in ivy and my feet
weren’t full of sand.
If my moral compass
pointed north I’d drive
you to Lake Huron and
trace your veins,
tiny blue rivers, while
we watched the water
amble somewhere.

But I’ve no sense of
direction and you can’t
speak, and we are
still landlocked, hovering
at the end
of the earth.

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