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Wrestling
Your eyes trace someone else trace
Their bodies all the bodies are being
Caught up in you and I have buried so many
Before getting here you see
Me when you should trace them
With your eyes does it feel the same
As your hands? (Always to a point of infinity
It builds up in me to a cacophony
Of hands wringing for their turn or their fingertips)
Limits on the Power of Amendments
Will I ever write again like you’d look away?
My heartbeat is your eyes blinking
The world, turning a corner
The substantial limit is what cannot be changed
There are times born from my chest right into my hands
And we make them words, like wet clay, more touching than creating (Creating all the same)
Dependency in hands becoming the creation
Nothing to tell apart
I overcook my pasta talking to you on the phone
Creation is dependency
It is in everything
