It’s eighty-seven and I’m
Pursuing doing as in all
The previous years not
Wanting to stop even now,
Even when my heart races
Faster than a slow-moving
Star. Wherever we are
There is no colliding, at least
Not yet. My own good ear
Perceives a gorgeous crying,
Singing perhaps. I try it
With my hoarse voice
Which Doesn’t reach.
It is once again night
So much here go frighten
The wary stranger. There
Is no signal here. Static
Ratchets up when I cry
Out. There are owls and
Something else peering
Down from all the trees.
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