Turned back.

I am splitting wood w/ my teeth; would

you spilt wood w/ your teeth?

I would. Backwards, even

Hands unfolded. Don’t

fold your hands,


This is not mid-springtime,

this is not mid-winter,

this is not your summertime:

This is the dead of the line,

the lively note/the binding tie.

Perhaps it’s nearly dinner-time.

Let us cross our little fingers, eh?

That all of those



desires would lead us all somewhere

different someday,

instead of molding over inside.

But I am brimming with toxins,


bullet-wounds to the self-contained.

And when I check on 

the pulse, 

Science tells me that I’m dead

because there is no movement

left inside

Except for incessant whirlings and twirlings

that only lead back around again

to some self-imposed

beginning, middle, and end.



copyright: C. Ward 2016


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