sometimes i feel like this:
he is running racing along invisible track lines on someone else’s skin vicariously absorbing a high running too fast the sky is not there the trees are not earth and all is blur; blur watch carefully tripping over what should be roots he is sprawled-upon the-earthenware plate
and slow turning it’s burning his hair is singed but where is the feeling?
where is the pain?
lost sensation is pedaling its wares along the corners of his fingertips they stroke and stroke and never touch the tips of the hairs on your arm (tickle tickle) so careful he lifts a great feather big white feather, run quietly up the side of your throat though you shiver he is looking over yourself, not through you, for even his eyes are blind in the daytime
seven secrets lay stripped in a row,
and six feet are trampling their stomachs.
feel a thing;
the entire point of this experiment is to restore some semblance of normalcy but instead he is only the numbness you attempted to drive away and even crying over spilled milk is beyond his capacity what are you going to do with him?
(anything you love can and will be associated with pain. your lawyer will agree.)
and even tho’ he witnessed his own renaissance it was only the birth of
he is only a sheet of [ paper ]
in search of a pen that dried out years ago on the desk of the forefathers who chose to drool instead and oh, how sad-
they left a blot where his mouth was supposed to be.