sit and write
my calves are sore from moving metal plates.
my silent apartment motionless,
and with unconscious breath i sit and wait.
for what, i do not know
for my brain to will my legs to move,
for my heart to will my mind to will my hands
to create something new.
it seems i have forgotten color,
that i know not what to do with myself while i am alone.
it seems i have forgotten shape: the morphology of the counter-tops, of the blushing-apple trees
don’t feel like home.
perhaps i have figured out this perpetual obsession
with an unknown eve –
should i begin to walk at night,
braving the darkness, the whisper of leaves?
all that i know is that right now i feel
emptied, cracked, rushed, like water boiling too fast on the stove.
so today i called my brother, but he was busy
beginning a life that is now fully his own.