It's seven-
-Syllables too quiet
And I twitch--

From teachers on my hand
Open-- close-
Open-- close

Canyons of flesh
Etch pain for remembrance
To the familiarity,

Of skin that dances
To sun-kissed residues.

Sleeping Shroudily
With meadow-blossom
Tethered by the wind.

But frabjous day  
Is counted, in minutes and
seconds.

Made of earthquakes
Catching clouds.