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stranded
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Bad poetry stranded
can I enjoy her soft hum
the same as the keening whistle
of all this art? I don’t want to live
like someone compelled to create things
squished perpetually between analysis
and occupying wonder. What I can give of myself
is a burning torch to the Sun or
a single eye to a spider’s head
she will see me
so short-sighted, so much of my brain buried
in a shitty grog of synthesis and
forced words. I don’t know much better a way
to hold my bones together now. They
vibrate like an old engine
so early. But I still
have so many eyes.bed and body
