How do my arms and hands know
to type no further?

Crack. Thru. This. No further.

Almost like cramps. The resistance.
Muscle's reluctance decorates
these lines

Working my hands til fingers push on. Stretching
between lines.

This is not [clenching] bad

Look at your hands.  Stretch them.
Clench a fist.

I'm smitten. I am hardened. I am flicked.

A fingers width to meaning.  This is mine.

A note we all like.  Playing.

sleep
abstract enticement
                                    at mid-day
the crutch
                   holding up dreams
the sweet foment
                                of time
a quarter moon
                             distant and silent
                              ingesting twilight

These impulsive thoughts
     hidden like a toddler.
They are not hidden
     and yet I pretend.

In the curtains of my mind,
     toes exposed.
They linger. Waiting. Crouched.
     Still I pretend.

the solitude
of the nothingness
on the polished
metallic bench
and the sobering thought
no sounds to waste