close or cloistered, sightless, airless
a crawling inward, down and down
only to some quotidian selfishness –
to basic baseness, under blankets.
but instead a fumbling out –
a forward slip of the headlong sprinter
who has been running, after all,
only toward this – ineluctable – line.
and in the fumble, as i fall
i hope my hands, flung far from me
– boldened, believing –
open to touch – the rushing pavement.