3.
If I stumble on a stone but instead speak sky, from which will I fall, as which will I return?
4.
There’s no wasted silence in the conversation of roots— helixed, intangible, beneath each broken step away from my father as our crooked roads converge, toward the meaning of bark to a barren, timbered slope, as absurdity creeps into our attempted migrations and into our remaining here conversing ourselves into meaning.
5.
It is to this degree I fear the landscape
will negate us.
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