sink

that sinking feeling–

the open world of gut instinct,

gnawing at the inside,

making the air cold

and the rain turn to glass

a burlap sack filled

with empty pockets,

morsels leaking from the sides,

money spent to tithe

the past

a small king in a big world

and big worlds dotting

the universe–

back to now–

back to then–

the sinking of skin on skin,

breath in breath–

blinking in and out,

off and on–

the last roadsign at

the edge of a starry slipstream

before the pavement

turns left, sharply

out of sight

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