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The Halt



My earliest memories
have been folded and unfolded
until they are more crease than cloth.

I remember myself to create myself.
More I, less I, too much, too little.
What comes comes, sometimes, out of order.
Proximity to what doesn’t forget
because it never remembered
keeps existence tilted on terror.

But we are not exalted by the halt.

A series of collisions,
I long to be a solitary bird
soaring over an empty valley
with no pressure to land.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.