Last Time

We walk the last curve, my friend.

We walk the edge of something big.

A dream, maybe.

Maybe a hole.

Do dreams fill holes?

Or do holes fill dreams?

The air here tastes of copper

Or of rose hip tea.

Bitter or sweet matters not.

You once told me that the world was round.

“What difference the shape,” I asked?

I was lonesome at the time.

We were also on the edge of something then.

And are on the edge once again.

This time, one of us jumping off.

--Mitchell Hegman