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.