Matthew Wojczys2 October 2016
I sit reading for so long that my legs tingle
with guilt, and the arms of the chair
become my arms. For a moment
I feel the stiffness in your back.
Now his finger itches
to hatch from its enclosure
of moulting skin, inch up
beyond the down lights
to the paper-thin sky,
a relic that preceded the Anthropocene.
a ritual to dispel black invertebrates
I’ll leave my bones behind to pry you from His greedy hands and greet you again, with greedy hands of my own.
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