Transitions

It is a twist of logic that there is no process
of becoming lost. One morning I was looking out
at blue oceans and green skies and

the next I am stuck in the clammy grips of decisions closing in on all
sides. How unfortunate

that the flush of the sun
sears bone; at midnight I flicker under the waxy
cast of a lightly singed moon.
There are too many syllables caught in the slide
between tongue and teeth
incomprehensible, the way 脆 means both fragile
and crisp...If I could inhale my future I would
swallow it in pieces, and maybe it would be

the same as dying. But who knows how much
my stomach can hold before the friction of mistakes
will light something on fire and I will stumble across some
fractional line: lost,
found.