stinking of the fear journey; carrying all the tchotchkes (collected nefariously. sad!)
and so, roiling, the “I know” fingers do their magic, invisibly from behind.
you are there again, speaking in eternity voice
(God, it can be overwhelming, thrilling)
not only scent alerts the blind-deaf self,
but touch
from behind
a chilblain, hypothermia, a body death rattle;
cannot tame what has been loosed.
you and I wander, but with a surgeon’s precision, into the ether.
together.
lock-step.
----
