nor the judge of time,
imperfect axis of the earth,
yet navigated a house on fire,
thus youth w/o youth.
now here, in still disappearing minutes
past trauma theory,
but still in aside, within skin,
outside of life from beforehand, before face.
while I am unsure of myself,
August gave me a target,
like a joy as a form
of resisting death's impasse.
and I remember
the globe my mom stole,
every spin then stop
with the luck of one pointer finger.
oh, the places I wanted to go;
the Baltic Sea with a twist,
Sicily one spin, Taiwan one buzz,
Detroit with a reverse spin.
of a collage of my body,
of the other beautiful chrome woman
to be worshipped in the tunnel,
of a collage of souls from somewhere else.
the topography, the isobar,
with weather both good and terrible,
cool vs sweltering, small and large,
but still being here is the best battle.