At the top of the hill, before the light gives way to the pine
that fractures across the sky,
and the farmhouse, opens its door to shadow, there is a
It is not the dead bird, lying out flat and face down in the
middle of the street, its brown
belly on the pavement, cooled by the wind.
It is not in my chest, which opens up into sections as I
breathe in the air that almost
shocks me into falling face down as I climb the hill.
It is not the breath. It is not the sky, which I haven’t looked
at, staring up at the
mountains, which spreads down through the range up the
It is not my knee, which seems at any moment will collapse
into if nothing else,
the breaking beneath my legs, the final moment I push up,
towards the end of the light.
There are shadows which cover the sign: SUN, painted in
blue at the peak of the hill.
So, where, today, will I direct my anger?
Where will I turn, running past the women, who hover up
the road, no cars,
crawling into their beers in the middle of the day?
Fat and White. I refuse to grow any fatter, or to not tan.
I burn off another self, sprinting up the high hill of my own
burning Kcals toward the peak of my own release. In this
face, “What a view?”—
someone asking another. Was I supposed to seek
something else into which to slip?