stones and shockwaves.
Yes, I feel the edge of the cold, how it hovers, but never penetrates.
I see colors, but they are just numbers and letters in a database.
My bones are as light as aluminum, smothered by the weight of my skin,
the crust that hovers just high enough to me to suck in, but never breathe.
In my palm, all these pills become planets in visible orbit,
blue stones on lifelines, and after absorption, I catch little distortions:
millions of fallen grey sticks as fascia, network of exposed root vessels,
the redberry-laden branches as vibrant cells that hold fast,
the shore-bubbles on sand as diseased cells multiplying,
the nut-brown oak leaves as dissections, piled across the school track.
And yet, in another light, they are hands overlapping,
offering brittle, disintegrating comfort to me.