how we die

carrying a pizza box up-hill,

balancing two cold cylinders atop a softening square;

 

listening to the klee-klee-klee of the kestrel,

calling and climbing and diving for food;

 

building a race-car without brake clips,

forging full-speed-ahead;

 

stealing a few  lone  hours at midnight,

catching ghost moments in the quieting hum;

 

kicking off slippers bed-side,

leaving for morning should you wake;

 

every month is a miracle under-girded thirty-some times by the words:

this is the day.

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