my fingers my handwriting reveals a face
I don’t recognize.   write less I think to myself,
remain a better unknown.   my fingers holding
chopsticks, holding a pen.   same result.

my skin is water.   finally cooling waves.
waiting has arrived.   fish starfish and rocks,
a moving bough in a small universe.   water
holds us all.   like a child’s dream.

my lips.   dry, crackling, a fire while I catch my
breath.   they remember more than my thoughts
can describe.   they know it when home arrives.

my feet don’t go so far as once they did.   down
the slanted ground, will balance be of good faith?
socks or no socks are the questions today.

chest is where the air goes inside.   a space
bounded by me, my ribs, my unsatisfied breath.
desperate is a word I’ve used a lot recently.

tongue waits for something chocolate or maybe
even just sweet.   waits.   waits.

eyes, they write the words first, inside.