The Overflows

My hands are not a little tired
My mind not a little worn

Sleep in its old corners.
I tread the papery hour
It’s oscillations thrum on my skin,
And in all my brittle crevices

I am walking in the fogs again.

Here, there, a curling loss, something in the white of the eyes, here a pinned up languor.
There, sequestered hope and subtle whim
And a petulant longing for skin.
And a peddled murmured cure within, a seismograph still coughing out it’s anger.

There is too much light in the room.
On my hands, in my skin, in my chest, in my skin.
I am parched and bloated with the doing,
With the keening cry, the sensing violently.

My brain is not a little thin,
Full with endless din, it runs
And tests and turns and wrings each
Drop of juice from febrile air.

I fossick for my glinty adjectives, the sweet cradle of words, again.

Nerves as worn as an old kitchen board, as a blanket, worn as they have rocked me.