It is 4:02 a.m. and I am already boiling like an unattended pot,
raging my physical states away.
I smell putrid creeping out of every tiny cranny I see
and do nothing but type as look confident, experienced at this
control, as though connected to something, plugged in.
Meanwhile, I am spinning out, fraying and backspacing,
all that was ever tight in the world
unravels at my bare feet.
Materials and shelter, busy bodies building,
there is one right tool for the job,
so why
have I
not pulled out my own rusty heart and lubed
palms or squeaky wheels?
It doesn't fit. May be the wrong size...
I realized this is not what was expected
from how it started, or turn out like
what I tried to right.
You are glowing, they said.
Fire.
I like the warmth
on my back as bridges blaze
keeping me orange and distant.
Tension is essential in trades.
Where you see space and room to grow
I have seen structures diminish these.
