Gunmetal sky,
slate if that sounds right.
Chewed on all afternoon
until night came. What if you were
an arrow, let go from someone’s bowstring,
updrafts of air as you went,
streams of wind right through you?
On most maps you could
figure out where you were heading.
At any rate, no one would ever
know if you fled that way,
across and over the
digital hills, swiftly fording
man-made rivers.
In dreams, there is always someone
who doesn’t fit the narrative,
who calls out
your name in
the coming dark,
which is always
yours.
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