span of great distances,
my god,
or any,
or anyone who's listening,
my marrow's been replaced with jittering.
i want to
need to
move
m o v e
m  o   v  e
the knees suffer my stumblings
same pavements, same streets,
names that exist elsewhere
but lead another direction.
i want to travel that non-path
to spit on Frost's grave
and then weep,
weep my blisters back into the earth,
its given gift,

i suppose.