My forearm appears in front of me.
Bare with rivers of blue,
Indigo streams under soft clouds.
My brain will turn my skin inside out
Like deli meat, on display
I’m scared I will not know
The sensations from existence.
Not unlike yours,
Not quite the same.
Biology, neurology. Something to blame.
But I appear okay.
Something about William S.
something about the world. A play.
My hands grow weak.
My grip failing.