my fear, a fossil,
amberkept by the resin jar—
and its shaking sounds like salvor
a mind measured, regulated,
situated via moral plaza
subscription, prescripted, what’s
the difference? it’s all just
i toe toward
the way one toes,
toward the bathroom
in the midst of
midnight’s lack of
Poem (it is not anemia)
it’s twelvetwentythree a.m. &,
in the livingroom, i am—at rest, half
sprawled on the couch, half on
the ottoman. that question gnaws
at my stuffs, about my mind—
“You’re okay with just sitting
around doing nothing?” What
if i am? What if i’ve no choice?
My feet are cold. Exposed from
beneath the counterpane, beneath
the ceilingfan. Chilly digits. And my
cheeks are burning with, stinging
from an implicit indictment.
Nature didn’t care. Why should you?
Shine Ballard, the fainéantmanqué, currently creates and resides on this plane(t). Follow him on Twitter at @xShine14.