Three years ago my left arm moved.
It reached for a sun perched
In a web of leaves.
But now, it lies limp, restless
Like a bed of pink sand, a limb
Dangling in darkness.
And I all want is to tie my shoes,
To brush my teeth with steady force,
To be an exquisite ghost in the early morning.
This arm, this useless lump of flesh,
This song of my unbecoming, my heart
Whirling in flames.
Half-cerebral. Half-sensual. I want
Love to trample through my arm, to
Stretch across an unbalanced horizon,
Across the darkness settled in,
Across eternity and evening
Or the bristled hairs on Godís face
And then, covered in light,
My wavering shadow
Becomes whole again.
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