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,
born of things decaying.
like clockwork,
i make the rounds,
spiralling inwards

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.


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