Here we feel for rope…
Two-bit tropes, lack of fancy,
upwards on a steep grade.
Muscle memory, relax and fade.
The last of the great unpaid internships.
As we once presumed…
There was no window,
only a minute aperture where
a needle of light came through.
How lost are we? How defeated?
Lips that can only shape hymns
to a broken sun. Meanwhile…
A category of aches…
Believe in the crash. Pictures, sweetly…
The gravel bed… Harbor of our undoing…
The doing spread sinewy fingers
towards a dull heaven. Outlasted…
Diligent fire marches along the rope.
We leave in pieces
or else combusted.

-r. miller


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