I sit here convoluted; a heart with thoughts,

laddered, essential for a cause,

an impulse protector, and a radio knob

for outside contortions.

 

Intentions, the aches as habitual as breathing,

are safe as a puckering bud but, tasting

the back of my lips I find

a syndicate of vines,

thorning the future for fuck ups.

 

I fall over a root, sampling time,

cutting up my knees for art –

the grandiose, the profane,

each questioned limb retracts

in the refined weather of you,

and settling in between is a permanence,

a suspended child willing the will of work away.

 

It makes me stamp my feet –

I do not know how to stifle the human –

and reach for the stream of heaven

to burp in my veins,

diluted, like a victim of thought

un-thought,

forgetting that I sometimes reign the brave.