there’s your heavy,


warm arm

abandoned all the way

across my chest

i’m squeamish

with the usual pain

i can’t — or rather won’t —

move further away from you

i’m made to

tend to




no matter how deep

are my own

no matter how badly

wronged i’ve been

no matter how


i am

your wounds

are not even open

but they keep me

ablaze with a

foreign fever

they keep me

from sleeping

from gathering

the tiny pieces

of a striking

wholeness –

I still don’t know

how to lay my

legitimate claim

to it

I lay all my claims

before the feet

I’ve washed

with the downpour

of due anger

I’m still learning

how to dry my hands

for now,

my back aches from

the weight of

countless vigils

dragging through

the fabric of time

eons back to when


was all there was

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