A Walk

by Luke Otley

With my

left foot

forwards

I staggered

my shadow hung heavy,

black and still like printed rhymes

I gasped rasping

“How do they do it?

How do they live?”

I called to the night

the cold moon snorted at us,

old fools using old tools

to know old truths;****

lavender blotches on our old noses

twitching perpetually

testing questions

proved deathless by greater minds;

we were two pained people

spots in the stains of time