If you need
to see how old
I really am
just take a sharp blade
to my middle
and count the ring-
worms inside.
I’ve been keeping
my words, lately,
somewhere other
than here,
here where
my throat itches
with the dusty pollen
of verbal pollution
with every click.
You are beautiful,
so too are your words,
they could paint the sky,
and I could paint you
white.
What’s the point?
I’m finding satisfaction
in separation of self
from symbolism
and I would ask you
all to join me.
How many rings
did you find?
I am nearly 100-years
and a few more days
and I’m having a hard time
swallowing.
I keep choking
on air. That’s how old
I really am.
I keep a journal
in the dirt
but it keeps washing away
but at least the rain
doesn’t equate my fragments
to my figure.
At least the sun
has the decency to apologize
for burning bits of me
into the earth.