I am but stinging nerves left
from fingertip to elbow's peak,
stroked more screens and keys
and can't hold anything
longer than it lets me.
I've felt nothing since 23
and even then
those gestures were
cheap and aired,
organized for poetry
without experience to share.
Since then I've been caged
and I sing, I sing--
I weep through choruses
and stumble 'cross bridges
to arrive at the same place
the same face
who gives me
the minutiae of love
I think I deserve
lest I snuff out his flame
and I shrink--
I shrink from both ends
waxed by hands
from which I let
myself be hallowed and shaped.
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