in the after

she is happy in the concreteness of a thing off-kilter

as long as there is breath and flesh, laughter

and the unconditionality of impermanence

or the other way around…

she never knows this in the moment, though
only in the after

where she lives again
happy in the white space…

between words

char

sun-lit sparks then char

the surface cools

black smoke turns white

and the air that fueled

is the air that belies

it’s just her heart

she carries it with her

mooring

On the tipping-edge

of a mooring point

Valhalla teeters;

In falling there is a knowing,

and the earth ever her beloved

where men fall short.