#149: Everything is Unravelling

April 1, 2020—In which my mind and body disintegrate back into the universe and I hold up my hand, only to have it slip through my own fingers.

I’m sick in systems. I don’t mean much.
To myself, I drag in at dusk. Rains on the floor.
Crane my neck to touch my toes.
Ankle on Mars. Knees six feet deep.
Craters don’t move, they breathe dust.

Wish I was people, but I’m hardly me.
Threadbare seams multiply with yes and no.
Stitch with pins and needles.
When to tip, when to toe.
It’s a line, both ends dissolved.

Twitch of sleepy lips, left ’til late.
Spread your words and operate.
To burn pitch black, eat my flames.
A house on her head, a house up ahead.
Home is to know that home is dead.

—A.F.