the shape of a baby's foot
rests against the window of my memory
proof that there's endlessness in moments
that draw out forever, stretching
like taffy across the full arc of my life
how come we're all so obsessed
with beginnings and endings
but weary of the landscape
that stretches between?
our own end seems like a myth
a unicorn, ethereal and absurd
someone else's story
it's easy to cast that role
with a different actor
if you're always the star
then death is just a bit part