daily three

oh god, i am fading out.
the electric buzz of my appetites
becomes the pert snapping of fingers
becomes the anxious knee-bounce
becomes the furtive itch
of a dry and sunken thigh.
i examine weather out of
small windows. the inner person
touches the world less and less,
peering softly out as if from blankets
made of rotting teeth and thinning hair
and skin both thinning and thickening
in the wrong places, blankets tending
increasingly towards the same mono-
chromatic wash as that of cars encrusted
with roadsalt or the homeless on the corner
smeared with the same, blankets of gray age
on a morning when some early riser
has turned down the heat, offensively.
observers may name this “serenity;”
i know it as “retreat within a body
no longer recognizable, or trusted,
or owned.” but warm. at least it is still that.


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