Freefall #4: Isostatic

The truth comes out at the edge where it’s singed. Not a lot, just enough for the flames to lick in rough bark smooth bark dirt dark stone sharp inbetween space trunks rise green tinged. When the boughs break memory slinks in the coastal fringe strikes, slips, cracks like glass on wet black rock where the smoke seeps in and the mist seeps out and the dirt was just crushed ice corpse ice cored with a millionweight pressed like assailants’ ribs on the space where there might be breath till it mounts and starves when it melts it carves so ten thousand years is a breath drawn hard through a throat unbarred like hurricanes sweeping clouds off the stars like memory rubbing ash in the scars like one long gasp rasps past lungs gummed with earth and tar expand recycle memories twinge draw the water up and the edge rolls down on a coastal hinge, joints, angles rock, seesaw, rebound, wake, blink, and cringe; drink purge, re-binge. Relapse, recover. The forest forgives.