when I am alone,
call it nativity?
I step off the cliff
of high and low,
values that sprout
new shoots each dawn,
only to rot by noon.
what a waste of gravity?

when I am alone,
a ghost in a form.
i see it simple and fair.
I sharpen my senses
to catch the wind
mid-breath, before it
claims to be east,
or
south west storm.

others cling to their cliffs,
shouting menus
for a feast of ghost ingredients,
while their teeth
chew the air.