I only have tables
Everything else is on the lawn
Or long gone.
It's clean of echoes,
Spacious.
I can't stand to look in mirrors
And can only guess at what I feel
In gloves
That snap and catch on edges and
Slide and slip when wet.
Empty for all but tables
And instruments
Built from invisible theory.
Periodically I wish to sit
Or crumple to the floor
Exhausted, empty
Machines beeping above my head
Independent of my gloved touch.
I wonder where my flesh
And feeling
Fit amongst the many tomes
And years studying these cells.
For now I am not still
Laid out on a table
I am alive.