It's not my Achilles' heel, but my whole body:
- a spine meandering like a levee road
- a melon sits atop a kinked neck,
typing this.
Is everything good for you?
Aren't there downsides anymore?
Can turning pages be so hollow?
I'd believe what anyone professed,
confessed, or obsessed about
provided my spine stood tall
because of it.
There's nothing else to do but type:
nipple throbbing with the latest melanoma,
cars skidding into snowbanks outside
while fingers, frantic and nub-chewed,
set visions to paper
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