free_solo tender_square two decades of metal-sprung gate, deteriorated. slack-jawed and slipping weight. carabiner clipped to many iterations of key clumps though i’ve never been a mountain climber. worn at my hip—a tambourine crash of jangle announcing entry—through most of my twenties until the hook married a bench at a music festival and i had to rediscover my steps to get home. a garnet piece of something free given to me in exchange for labour at a public broadcaster. the radial insignia and letters for its french-speaking arm etched in white though i’ve only ever retained a few verbs. discarded into a wastebasket before i drove home; why hold fast to this part of past if it doesn’t work anymore? 221121 what's it to you? who go blather from