Wound

The worm’s
Wound tight
In living flesh.

They build
An angry fire —

Unseasonable —

And stark branches
Struggle
To uphold something,

But the nearsighted,
The somnambulant,
Can’t see.

And the other,
And the other,
And the other —

Hallucinations
That splinter their knuckles
At the door.

And I don’t know
What it is.

We live in
This house of cards —

A roiling of the gut,
Words that slip the divide,
And the paralysis of our biology.

Someone needs
To turn down the heat.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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