It’s the air that’s aching for volume.
You’re alive but your feet
Are heavier than you thought.
How is the road making
You feel you’re not
Undead, like eternity,
Like its terrible sublimity?
Here, many died of old pain,
As love of purposiveness,
Nature of thoroughgoing restriction.
How do you do? Her turn to ask.
I said, ‘all nights are deeper than ontologies.’
There, a summer walk outrivals the sea.