Fading fast, the mute blue
of the evergreen's youngest needles.
Building faster, the hard, cold rain.
It patters in the stew pot, it rises
to my throat. Noisy are my
nightly dreams, ever-charting
the meridian. Planted in my gut,
warming with my breath. This
thing limps on the side of the interstate,
smiling with its molars in the darkened
foyer, in every hair follicle and
everything else, too. My tingling skin,
my aching feet, the water cleaning handfuls
and handfuls of stones. Curiosity,
impulse, recoil. The second self in chains.