The road looped on itself but not so often as the creeks
Looped under it. Cold weather at last, at least on the mesas.
A body could think it might be a good, quiet time to go
Except that a body never thinks like that, not outside
Of the precincts of the prefrontal cortex, no. I would
Not have believed the body's mad love of staying alive
Had I not kept my balance, barely, on a ledge myself.
The body's pull, back and away from the fall, felt
So strong it was more as if I were being pushed backwards,
Despite the black gap in tumbled lava that beckoned me.
It felt like a magnet, north to my north, opposed me,
Like holding two magnets pushing each other off, hard
To overcome. So I didn't. So here I was, thinking again
About change, about the weather, about whether I was
In the present or only the past, a pleasure or a bother,
A well-meaning character of many faults or only a sad scoundrel,
Long ways from the langitinaz, days still getting shorter,
Breath shorter, resources shorter, mistake shadows longer,
Darkness longer. Can the infinite grow? How would we know?
Every few turns of the groaning old globe I confront another
Night that threatens some ominous Monday. I can't keep
Returning without any highly unlikely returns. Highly unlikely.
Two fighter jets from nowhere screamed through the slate
Skies over me and I slid back down the road to bed.
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