Soil shifts into sand. I sift through
the memory desert but images fade.
Apropos of data, imperfect as the sun.
Ever sit in existential crisis wondering
what if gravity ended? Would we
even know? A brisk death, clean,
and the photo album would
consist of something, a void
we wouldn’t be drawn to.
(originally published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Winter 2023)