Allergic to friction
The past hasn’t meant
Everything to you
As only in present
You might recluse
You might recluse
Seamless, integral
Dusty djin
Clean out
Your painted corner
This cage of ribs
You’ve hung on
Too long
Displacing breath
And blood
A seeming
Eternal ligament
Has snapped
Releasing muscle
From deadening chalk
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2016
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