Free Entry 1, Week 3

At 12:54 I harness the winds of last
Tuesday. As they scrape the sky and etch
grooves into my scalp like lace
corseting a shoe, I remember a simple fact:
You look nothing like the map of
the town. Nor should you. You are not
portable by any means. I wonder when
terrain becomes terrain? When we have
treaded it enough? Even the marble moon
wanes in its arduous nobility. Collects a value
of movement however depleting. Enacts trickery
or a guise of omnipotence, where as are you
just sit or fake a rare slug. Now I know why
coyotes bawl at their own reflections
in those lucid gullies of last season’s rain.
They yelp and hurl sounds of stillness,
their trapped image, rippling within
a hedge of water. Fear springs
from animals ensnared in static. Any being
pumped with instinct would eat itself whole
before squandering its own legs to flatness.