Holes in the path
behind me, craters
between footprints,
a scruffy ragged soul
barely standing while
the winds pluck bits
of yarn, pieces
that try to fly off
on their own,
yet leave together
forward ?

Sand strokes my brow
then strikes and scratches
and I wonder
if my feet
are standing
on another hole
or a whole,
will I sink or
can I muster
another step
soot underfoot
and will it be
forward ?

Can I even find
where soil will not
feel familiar,
where my steps can
discover new ground,
is the dust not
cogging and clogging,
can the machine still
drive, move, be moved,
is it all just
window dressing or
sad mirror image
forward ?

Can I push, can I
pull myself in any
which way with
remains of vigor
and vices, vivacity,
can I still flutter
and if so, will I
just be fleeting
or fleeing, finding
that I no longer
search a way, away
a way
forward ?

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