writing sober
pulling words out of my hair
and pockets and left over
fingers that have forgotten
how to write through normal
noise...
I spill them across the
floor and wait for life
to whisper back of things
felt and done and said
and tasted against my
restless tongue.
empty bottles glisten
down my memory. So
much of me got swallowed
into coherence. Today
I just sit here wearing
numbness too tight
around my heart.
I scatter the words
loose with my toes and
wonder what that crow
is thinking, hovering
over my yard. He seems
to be waiting for me to
fly across the yawn.
I fairly echo with
nothing. My shadow
yammers in nonsense
rhymes and fatigue
is really the only word
I understand.
I fell out of youthful
dancing and have not
yet met my age aching
up the wall. I linger in
the middle of broken
clocks and tick with
need for anonymity
and sleep.
The bed wants to
love me down into
the earth quiet and
dark and moist and
teeming with alarming
hard shelled bugs who
will embrace me into
the tribe.
And I will slide with
abandon beneath a
rock and just wait
for momentum to
take me home, my
antennae shimmering...
Blue (chamys crane)-S.F.
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