I stand on the porch. Colder
than I imagined but also pleasant in that
my breath is nearly always visible.

To whom. Rivers hide
stone to keep themselves frothing
and rootbeer brown. Rivers

knock you under and tear you
from. Our hands’ oars feel
them binding fast like frost.

I want this to be harder. Outside
My ears burn at no slander though
why not. Apologies mean what

to a futurist. There’s a promise
about the earth I can’t. To
traverse it one could lift off

letting it turn beneath. This only
from far away. Outer
space, I’ve heard rumors,

lacks heat certainly, its fuels
fallen below any fight
for reignition.

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