This poem has lost her license
to drive
to thrive
to kill
to spill

– ink or ocean
or sky or sea.

to fish
to wish
to kiss
and tell.

She’s got no ID
and no pass
-port for these passages
of pain and fear. She’s here
of her own accord, stamped
clean, never

She’s a ward of the state
of grace
of space
of one last race
to the moon and back.

She’s a rebel on the run,
just here for the fun,
clacking black.


Apparently this is the year I just don’t quite keep up. And yet, we poem. This was day 19. 





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