in some oft-predicated corner of the story. we pedaled in opposing
windstorms, wheelbarrowing and seesawing in a tornado of multi-flurried
directions for too long before I recognized you in an unfiltered speck of

wait-and-see. you said something unintelligible and i responded energetically, too
focused on the tenor of the movements of the corners of your mouth. you were
embarrassed to point out that volcanic snowdrifts had replaced your mouth. honestly,

though, your mouth is everywhere, placing itself gently over the drifting particles of
prismatic light and non-prismatic matter. even the most mountainous mountains turn to
snow, dust, and other assorted particulates. your breath tumbles out in

tumultuous tundra
bagfuls of the most
wheeling and barrowing
refrains, coasting away
on borrowed or lent time