June 18 by The Running Son
the Ϧreezewaɣ ~§~
with color-infused light,
coming at me in waves, tidal.
To fight back
I solar flare. My miles bare scars
from the wild whipping
of light-years at this pace;
far passes flung backwards into space,
off to no place,
then swinging back—a flanking,
always acting the man.
Your face is nearly touching distance away
and here I am, expelling air again,
placing my breath
into what’s left of the breathable air
swirling and columning around us.
I spin away,
and my breath, taken up,
is swept with grace into the windy
blue pass of pressure,
and inclimate space between us.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.