with a foot firm on clean ground and
another in the ocean,
stretch fingers clear and
hold back hold back- am i really so
rusted out? this
salt erodes
my corrosions,
nobody will
make sure i've got
any vital sign
and still
can't figure out how to cry.

sharp wreathes like
all these 'could's hang,
thick like enveloping
void or city walls or
another jigsaw port i bind to:

why are my insides so
untouched yet torn in rend? i only
feel in whispers from the other
side of an endless warehouse, or
in railway spikes driven through
the side of my skull.

wound down, held back,
and made of iron filings,
wishing for nothing but
nothing.

all these hours to burn;
still, it is i built of but scar tissues.