rocks formed by water or heat: no difference
in method, only material and patience
I want to climb them all, you said
and then rolled your ankle down a hill
it took us a while to stop laughing
at the way it was: a perfect compromise
later that year, we heard of a herd of sheep
driven over a cliff, save one
they move like a river when they run, you said
pooling the image with a wave of your hands
no patience for patience, I realize I want you
whether or not my body stops me
but once the edge is in view
isn’t it already too late
Terry Abrahams lives and writes quietly in Toronto. His work has a been apart of BALDHIP, (parenthetical), Peach Mag, the Puritan, and many gendered mothers (among others). Find him on Twitter at @trabrahams and say hello.
