You shouldn’t venture
into fog, where a mountain’s
head rises,
a face
without eyes
an arrowhead jammed
into the flesh of sky.
It may be, someday,
that the world
will flip
to face another
sun, and you
the fish
choking at the bottom
of a wooden-ribbed boat,
your eyes smoke
and glass,
your desperate lips
pouting
as you drown
in the merciless air.
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