crushed under the weight of their own horses

c}{imps 8 my ears

DISTINCTION
after INTIMACY by Ada Limón

I detected in Almanac
of the Dead, a clear, severe
irony erupt between the limited
author and a boundless conceit—
the way whiteness codifies a lack
of differences, of detailed vision—
beneath a shadow, the obvious.
I’ve always felt different. Separate
from a whiteness which
spreads in affect radius
like a blinding field
into the eyes around me.
High desert traffic
lights rapture drivers in the rear
view to race to greens
and reds and greens and
reds six miles out
chasing these sparkling gemstone mirages,
they can never stop the change
and reach the line they never see coming. I try
to be aware of each fence post.
It seems an impossible
trick that, no two are alike
and the drivers passing on double yellows
are crushed under the weight
of their own horses.