The hands, I think, will be the death of me<\/p>\n
Round and<\/p>\n
\u2018round my neck<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
My body aches for the familiar<\/p>\n
But they pull me into a rhythm<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I pull back<\/p>\n
desperate to keep<\/p>\n
things which cannot be owned<\/p>\n
Artless fingers pawing<\/p>\n
for an incorporeality<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Sand glides unbiddenly between my fingers<\/p>\n
yet sticks impudently<\/em> between my toes<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Echoes of ere<\/p>\n restrain me<\/p>\n but anchor me<\/p>\n Who am I without the doom box I carry \u2018round like a handbag in my pocket<\/p>\n …my pocket<\/p>\n I fear too many pebbles have already fallen out<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I now mourn birds that have yet flown<\/p>\n Bile rises up in my throat<\/p>\n turning all sugar<\/p>\n bittersweet<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When did I last eat?<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Reid Wells The hands, I think, will be the death of me Round and \u2018round 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 … <\/p>\n