I’ve almost lapped the light,
nearly rounded the corner from one day
to the next. Edges are always difficult: lines
between here, there; then, now; together,
alone. In the empty gap, whiteout fog
forms. It doesn’t creep. It doesn’t bother
me to be far out of touch. Devices
meant for contact gag me
with insistence. Everything I recalled was small?
Overwhelmed. Avocados expanded,
a boiled egg enlarged. I can’t see the curve,
but it’s there. Pulling me hard to one side. Or,
perhaps, jealously away. Accidents, events,
are common in dark spaces, which anyway
you must cross. Language hurts
my eyes. Touch underwhelms. I smell
the sea six hundred light years away.

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