Don’t stop

I wonder what is there?

Beside that old dry creek bed,

Inside that routing wool shed

Beneath this stone.

It’s the kind of fear that feels like

the sound of a dripping gutter

that keeps me moving.

If I stop to look, what do I miss ahead?

The texture of lichen,

the deep taste of the soil,

and the sound of my blood in my fingers.

I saw the horizon compress in a world of grey

at the World’s End, two fruit flies

and a shard of cherry red paint.