Fasten each upon the lapel.
The collar,
laden,
choking,
fits its place.
Who are we but shape-shifters
blinking
in and out
of cognizant reality?
The picture is poignant:
an ode
to dogs with no teeth.
Long distance
lost
distance
and the broken bridge
can't burn,
can't fold
into red muddy water
the same way
a match
can't light itself.
---
Piecemeal.
Take it bit by bit.
Rung by rung.
Up and up.
Fake it, the dismal march.
Right, left, right.