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.

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