Without the Offing

A weather app
says it’s raining.
That’s not what I see
or feel on my skin.

Another app
tells me to boomerang
everything in view
and lean into the vertigo.

A shifted angle doesn’t help
this far off the horizon.

I am that line
you cross
when you expect
a different descent.

I fall
in the gap between
the first 1 WTC
and the next.

I don’t know
how to mind it at all.

I don’t have the right
to call myself a survivor.
I descend from one—
now dead from other causes.

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