Avoir le bras long

in the comfort of cotton too hot,
in the sanctuary of these four walls,
pristine like the underside of a clamshell,
the trees framed by the window are
nothing more than an artist’s rendering.

but there is more to be done here:
the cracked cranium,
the leaky sink,
the chipped bed-frame,
the dust-
oh the dust is everywhere,
multiplying,
born of things decaying.
like clockwork,
i make the rounds,
spiralling inwards
indefinitely.

i live by the sliver of sun,
the flickering bulb
as i chase my shadow friends
(faux amies).
i am the eye of a storm,
snapping branches-
my arms!

je ne peux
même pas m’embrasser.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s