“When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.”
The sponge of my lower back.
Safari scabs of drowned continents.
Its cloth-sticky clutch running its numb
thumb over and under.
The surgeon places an extra stitch for
reasons I shall never know.
Now a shadow, blown up.
I should set a timer.
Turn the sand over in its glass hut.
The trapped hand becomes frazzled.
With each pass of the dinner plate.
The dry powder to time’s electric fire.
Originally published by Don’t Submit Lit.