Each day is impossible as I fight with contours.
My horizon breathes its narrow fog, as militaries hedgehop by day.
Dusty trees tremble in darkness.
Silver-plated clouds and tiny craters slip stones into my mouth.
Here I wait for breaks at sea, cracks in holes made by language.
I am a stone at the bottom where each word will be stolen.
I could head for the pale yellow distance or die in repetition.