Of Me, Without Me

the heat on my face,
the wind a sticky

I don’t remember the steps.
My legs carry me
in a way I don’t understand.
Nothing registers.
Nothing focuses.
Except for the steps,
continuing despite
my exhaustion
and incomprehension.

Muscles and tendons
should have cramped
by now,
screamed in anger
and resentment.

Perhaps they have;
perhaps these limbs
are not moving—
I could be floating,
levitating above
the gravel and dust.
At this point,
I hold no control,
make no claim,
I just walk
through this sticky fire—
after step
after bloody step.


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