i think of peace as the most expansive
wound cleft by schools of fish, and the memory
of tropical rain, and kissing under a tree.
a wound that can only be thought about.
because you do not feel the sting of silence
or the grazing of stillness against your
body. you only recall the mother of all
shits after eight hours on the road. and
the satisfying smell of your own excrement,
something as personal as the design around
your irises or how each day's sky is shaped.
nobody can love it as much as you. no one
will handle it the way you will. flushing
all the clouds away, standing up again,
ready to go back outside and smash your face
against the tireless all-encompassing blue air.