number 26

we march
we tread upon the soft ground
we march
our feet sink into sand
the water rushes in to fill footprints
liquid erasure
we march
the earth gives us up
more easily than a ghost
passing before a bright light
our feet evaporate

we march
the earth cracks
and crackles like bacon fat
we march
and fire leaves not even ashes
no smudge of soot
or trace of foot

we march
only on the moon
remains evidence
of our small steps
awaiting bombardments
of stone
to take even that

philosophical dialogue #7 (20170603)

–do not confuse forward movement
with progress, he says

he cleans a fingernail
with the point of a knife

i huddle in a corner
all of my skin
curled in ribbons
at my feet
but surprisingly
there is not a drop of blood

–why is that? i ask

he shrugs

–just forward movement, he says

–but not progress?

he offers a smile, the first in hours

—let’s see about progress
after we’ve cut your
eyes free from those sockets