the longer you stay away,
the harder it is to return.
six degrees of separation
become six millenniums.
you take the long way home—
kicking up sun dust,
rust on your wheels, the
spindle of your spine
still turning to look back,
to keep weaving. your solar
plexus is on a slow-burn, couched
between your procured wings;
every thing is buzzing
on auto pilot
as you bring your ship in
through the streaks of dusk:
as you follow the yellow slick string
tying together this runway to infinity.
the leaving and the coming back is
a call and response you cannot
refuse—like falling on a cusped bruise:
you feel your flight from the inside out,
sitting cross-legged in your own sky, playing
pick-up-sticks with the long tender lines of light.