These legs have abandoned me.
Two solid sticks, tree trunks grounded in
dirt. I am spoiled goods, good for nothing these limbs
move only when forced apart,
a monotonous machine that melts in your arms.

Disarm. Even the rhetoric inside has
gone to sleep.

If sleep is for the weak then I am not strong. Although
awake, these fingers remain unconscious,
shaky branches the sisters of dead roots,
forgotten by the gardener.

In hibernation for the summer,
wake me when the leaves begin to fall then
plant me again.

Plant me tall,
I want to see the sky.

Plant me small,
so I can lie and watch the scattered stars disperse.

Plant me strong,
so I sleep through the night and **** what they say, because
sleep is never weak.

Plant me, but nothing else.
This time I will water myself.