Everything's a Fiction

I make away on teetering shelves of wind-worn stone to mark a new horizon all my own, saltpetering inward to the marrow of this globe's indecent bones, in hopes of carving a new home. Without a wing to leap aloft or fur so soft to move a hand toward my head, my back: I stand with arms outstretched and hugging still the wildest reach of mountain-sill, untanned. The marbled heights grow paler here, and in I peer to canyons with springs so boundlessly clear that harbingers of sons, of suns mirror...