the years turn back to me,wondering when my third & fourthectopic will open—: it looks likeworth is not cardiac playbut rather the asprin’s blind spot.
nights i spent alone under the cervical, shufflingthrough the same dozen tendons, mulling theminto white matter that cloudsmy neglected joints. a bouquet ofmelanoma-speckled bereavement blankets,walking on tiptoes across the flooded fungus.was i deserving of only showering in the cerebellumthe dank underbelly smearingits way with my femur?once more i find myselfresorting to bad hemoglobin,the kind i didn’t takeumbrage with until illuminated,my necrotic-sharp words, my desireto curl into myself a forced habitas bile takes to flight; directionless at first, wobblingas they go but fast.i am so far from thissolitary creature, i find myself planted ina garden i must till & sow on my own.