I'm Slimy or I Can't or I Can't Do More

A stem or

a pile of them

piling in-

to each other.

My face meets

every ex-

patriate

mentioning

that leaving

& feels

freezing a-

gain. My stem

on strike

scouring sky

in the throat I've puked.

I take this mouth

to say

just let me touch

that one part

of shame

to feel touching

touching touching.

I touch

this ground

to do anything

but nothing.

But my spade

is just one part

of the party

that breaks

the stems'

stems.

The jagged

glassing of it

as we weigh

the dirt we move

I am empty

loving

the poetry of sky

in a strange

blind box

made of every-

one's thumbs.

There's still

ice inside

our cratered field.

Floor washing floor.

Sky cutting sky.

I, without mirrors,

a broken wall–a child's

mother, rolling ahead.