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
instead of molding over inside.
But I am brimming with toxins,
bullet-wounds to the self-contained.
And when I check on
Science tells me that I’m dead
because there is no movement
Except for incessant whirlings and twirlings
that only lead back around again
to some self-imposed
beginning, middle, and end.
copyright: C. Ward 2016