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Pressing
Two hands made ugly by dark blemishes;
callous or calloused, bare appendages -
the sprawling, grasping point that narrows them
stays hungry without a mouth or a gut
to fill. To claw at, cloy at, or handle
would mean familiarity and some
astounding sensation that can't be felt
anywhere but the center of your chest.
From your hollow cavern through passages
that light and propel you, a condensed storm
moves like a furious and mad engine,
strangled by its own smoke and stray sulfur.
At point of closure you are made possessed
by a being already kinetic
and desperate to be along its way.
A choice to be made voices itself clear,
and through your quickest impulse you are made
blind, yet quick, or destructive and lucid.
