Thousand: Seven Hundred Thirty-Four

it fly, a fine cold mist of it blowing from my face, skin wakened by the sun’s heat and light, sloughing away. Considering how the plume of it shows up in your night sky you’d think I’d be blown down to a nugget in a minute, like a dandelion flower gone to seed, a breeze or a breath knocking all the dandelion’s hopes off its head (off its sex?) to a new settlement in an uninterrupted lawn. But it’s not quite like that. My dust shines. That’s all. I’ve got visits and visits in me yet. But the track out