All is well, say the midges, dragonflies, moths, ladybugs, even the wind stirring the leaves says to trust instinct’s music. I walk to unravel panic’s thousand fingers braided through my insides—false roots. When I see death I think lose lose lose automatically. The tarot says let go, change. I haven’t read Gospodinov’s The Physics of Sorrow, yet; can only take Sharpe’s In the Wake in small doses. I don’t want to drown in ocean math. I narrow my eyes to the scam, don’t move too fast, switch directions then pause—turn back to see what choice the snake makes sans my alarm. In the forest, grief
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