By | 23 September 2001

This is the way I want it: the risk like sex,
unprotected, its gender unknown,
its anomalies untested and what is perfection?

This shape, my new scoliosis as permanent
as the lengthening shadow of my abdomen.
I hope, I hope for nothing but a simpler metrics.

And psycho-babble: before there is a sound
there is a movement that is sound-full
and then the hard talk of fluid.

And the doppler effect: it transforms the abstract
to the concrete for what else could make
that whooshing? Yet there is my own heart.

So if meaning can be stroked into anything,
stuck waiting for assistance out of a chair
on the timber deck, I am the umbilicus.

doing nothing, my new predilection
is sore feet: inch by inch my first language
if only I could minus the nerve endings.

Here, give me a leg-up, I'm sweating primed
for escape, skewiff as I sway-sway between
a diminished focus where the toilet is and I am.

I know I am an animal and standing bent
is just a thing you get used to like defecation
and my position is squat and deliver.

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