i can't, i can't make the world go, these sudden stops and falls,
giant intakes of celestial breath
and all the lower orders have to pause, and wait.
i can't make the sea rise, or stars fall, or clouds churn,
though armageddon seems surer than surity, purer than poverty.
white on white pavement, cheap grout climbing the space between the concrete,
and what can two soft hands do?
oh, the mind might be willing, but the body is untrained,
unusable, distrustful, reluctant.
where maybe once smooth skin sluiced over quiet joints and tapered features,
now i am hobbled by anxiety, so thick it marks my skin,
emotional chlamydia, purple pock marks as telling as my ego.
when the fire starts, remind me that concrete doesn't burn,
no matter its condition.