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All for wonder,
wonder for all.
The summer of 2022—enter, a husky breath after one
held in groundhog days at the false alarm end. When
we came up for blue skies we chased again objects so shiny
we were blinded, moved so furiously we became tangled up
in the haze of the wild web someone out there made.
We granted ourselves the amazing grace of a wider lens,
saw awe square in the eye as cohorts of us dangled
with six feet of space, fingertip to fingertip,
mundane magic on tap,
dripping from a faucet shooting the gas that lit
the periwinkle skies cradling us in the illusion of safety,
the same gas that made the pink of my mother’s womb
and the violet rays killing me by flesh softly yet so brutally.
You are made of stardust—a once-brilliant footprint, but now?
It’s been a while; I’ve evolved into an iteration of rearranged atoms
in need of a motivational quote. Did the big bang say to itself:
just do it? Did it know that one day it’d be capable of all of this?
Gravity fades undetected as I look up, see shifting monuments of
universal decay, some so far away they’re already gone, a chamber
of inescapable doom, luring us in with the silent echoes of
itty bittiness. Truth was on the tip of my tongue and
I realize, on my way to the unknowable finish line,
in a race no one signed up for, with no prize,
no consolation, but to be a witness to each rise:
You, my wonder, are still on your first lap.