IN A SENSE

study her face.

a critical mind will try to unwind

but they cannot erase.

something about the stride of this reacher

who seems to sail an inch above uncertainty

in a place that looks well

match her pace. 

smile with a side hug

and keep on walking

"I like your shoes."

"they're my favorite," 

she slides barefoot through the artificial grass.

run her race.

equal parts espresso and foam

water washing down my face

touching high fading stars with her arms

an early morning and radio taillights

find my taxi at the capitol, unpack, and run

tears to your ears

"all of the glory" is something to dance about

we are well, we are well

blueshifting in a way we can't describe

did we meet her when we were children

or did she never stop being one