Dis-Ease

A poor fit, such jumping
skin, a peculiarity:
to pull at the wrist
like a too-short sleeve,
kick out a wayward leg
from a concert of limbs.
Fingers flex to dart,
loose a determined grasp,
suffer the tapping
of waiting.


Beneath Me

If you peeled back this skin,
you'd find blood sweated out; bones,
once firm, now warped and worn;
sinews a strangled, tangled ball
of fleshline, rolled back never
so taut as first wound; a liver
of gathered bile; the saliva thread
still hanging from an ill-spoken word;
the tip taste of a bitter tongue;
but deep within, the steady throb
of a hard heart still bleeding.


Windbag

Who are you to listen to me?
I am small, a cavernous mouth
pouring from a hollow heart, funnel
of wind rising off a trembling larynx.
Don't mind me. Silence tells true
wanting from hub of stillness center
storm. Would sand stop its biting
swirl, rain cease its grief, at deepest
cast you would find all abeyance.