To finish small
with a mere minute to spare.

To leave no visible trace,
so ghosts alone know your origin story.

To dash through the gap
between lightning and thunder

and find it warm, pure, calm.

To breathe in upheavals
only to exhale the murmurings

of a new color. To quit the graphic
novel to follow prehistoric

hand stencils (mostly left ones)
into the cave. To whisper “mural”

into a hot mic. To embrace
that moonmilk ache

triggered by fastidious finger fluting.
To drink the river without knowing

when the next storm
will flood your heart.

To begin tall—
tearing off stubborn cinder blocks

to recover the rammed earth story
before it’s too late.