Where nothing can touch you.
Not the chair you sit in, not illness.
Dear dread, you are part
of the steel beams, the stupid lit-up signs.
Here, buy my line, my
shaking lung. My cup needs more.
The hand clips itself to the door
it clasps. This blinking,
these wet bodies.
Being prepared ends. What it means
to be the wind.
Empty stomach, be glad,
you need too much most days.