Window; Pained

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Take the nakedness
of our course
and spread it thinly
over the cracker of wisdom.

Devour yourself
In a fit of rage-
Wearing an ill-fitted
Pair of shoes
To race against
Time and space
In a bare-boned
Attempt at.
Reaching an ends
To your means.

Bring the coarseness
Of your days
And sand it against
The chipping paint of your thoughts.
The evened grains of wood
Feel flawless beneath the touch
Of rough hands.

Perceptive eyes see the wooden flaws
And love them more, and love them still.

A sweaty-palmed grasp
On whatever you can hold onto,
Until you can’t hang on,
You can’t hang out,
You can’t hang up your past
on the coat hooks of tomorrow,
So you become damp
And sweatier yet.

The swamp-person you’ve become
Strips,
As if you’re leaking turpentine
From your glands.

Smells like whisky,
And whisky smells like truth,
And you know better.
A window,
Pained,
Waiting for a wayward stone
To be your Oppenheimer,
For that forever future day,
When your clumsy jagged edges
Become unglued.

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