I slide my Converse off and perch in half-lotus on the armless chair. (I used to sit cross-legged but now I practice yoga.) Ribs spiral away from the spine; I inhale. Exhale, ribs roll in. Spiral away, roll in. Away. In. Away.

Through the skylight, no cirriform wisp, no crows; simply cerulean until the leaf. Lop-sided descent, dipping more, swinging high, crisp brown edges, dry veins, frail. Until the little drunken boat lands on the skylight.

Last month Dad shed his body for flight. Away.


Long shadows

give shape

to light.

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