My hand has forgotten how to fall into bed with pen again
after the tenth year in a row of seeing a lake in the middle of road
it throws itself down in a thud
to plant half-moon flowers all down the avenue of tight flesh
but it had to learn how to walk again
or at least beg its way through the thick of the dirt
after this pyretic dry spell
that lasted longer than they'd agreed.

They used to share a queen
treated all dingy apartment flooring
like royalty
and my right hand
took the right side
closest to the window
then changed its mind when it rained for a week straight
and everything for three miles was grey,
the chaos settled between black and white,
and all that scares me,
because when my stomach does knots
it's only infinity
and when it flips
it goes ******* nuts
and you were so bored you started counting specks of sunlight,
each meant something big,
like the end of the sting in your step
while all of the opal-winged embers
that turned my fingers gold to the bone
were snuffed out under the rubber madness of my shoe
left me with just blue and stiff and lonely
missing that the quiet creaking in each knuckle
when my stomach empties itself out on the desk in front of me
and I decide I have nothing good to say.