i have a limp on my leg from the mosquito that landed there while i was trying to read; &; a love
that won’t go away.
i miss them so much, how
highly unenjoyable it
all was. like most things;
it shouted in my ear
buzzing and blasting.
a fucking disruption.
can’t you see what i’m
look at this busy wish;
my secrets that live on
trees ruled by
factory. yucky, rust.
i made paper once. it is
this paper, i say.
full of fibers
textured with plant
crumples like candle wax in the hand.
i brush it over my skin surface, my bites&me, all
sitting the wood of my chair; please take
away the pain of this limp.
clammy hands dry up like old desert where matzah
breaks underfoot. beach day
sand that makes the fingernails feel unbearable.
my paper ruled by the blood of poets.
each word nothing but their cells
they say nothing is original, but nature flies in my ear. original devastation is
in my bloodstream!, in the waters of my rest!
it itched up my legs, allergic
to the itch that called from the pages.
i could see the fibers, the water crumbling my bedsheets
feel the poets working, shouting, driving up the wall!
THIS IS IT! all there is.
this is what we do. all we can.
was there, too, on the page.
i had found it, finally
not from the bites. from
us limping poets&our blood
all meshed into the soil by trees.
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