Way station

In some games it’s all downhill:
momentum gained from the speed of
careening closer to the ravine.

Wind is an accessory, whipping
your scarf into an aerodynamic
arrow; or, the lift you ride

to sail across the chasm. Rocks
litter the craggy landscape. Silver birch
and fir, the only things that gesture

upward. You can’t remember how many nights
or days or cycles you’ve picked yourself up
from countless falls. The moon’s a pendant,

festooned on the lower registers.
Its glow is soft, like kindness; like a face
you once saw in a window, looking as you passed.

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