Reid Wells
The hands, I think, will be the death of me
Round and
‘round my neck
My body aches for the familiar
But they pull me into a rhythm
I pull back
desperate to keep
things which cannot be owned
Artless fingers pawing
for an incorporeality
Sand glides unbiddenly between my fingers
yet sticks impudently between my toes
Echoes of ere
restrain me
but anchor me
Who am I without the doom box I carry ‘round like a handbag in my pocket
…my pocket
I fear too many pebbles have already fallen out
I now mourn birds that have yet flown
Bile rises up in my throat
turning all sugar
bittersweet
When did I last eat?