I'm over-caffeinated and stressed out.
And I'm talking about death and dying with three different people.
About where to carry their ashes when they
or their loved one are gone. Adding to the pinheads
on a map where you cannot touch the monument
after it's built.
Because, inevitably, it becomes a riverbed.
An ocean floor. Nothing but sand.
Becomes the ground.
So I'm not writing. Not today. Today I search
for road races that force their runners off-road.
That don't end for days. That begin and continue and end at night,
because, you see, it's better to use the shock
of the heels, curvature of back against the heaviness
of an up-hill. Than to use the eyes.
Than to attempt to peer at the Earth
while you're carrying it. Spheres, orbs.
On the back of the spider are a thousand more.
Scatter me here, please,
they're saying.
A trail of silk on the wind.
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