cohere

This pulley pump, the body, presses and lazes

In measures near equal – not quite

And we tip the balances.

We tilt to ambitions or hopes

And think on ourselves,

Perchance bodily.

And we see a wet machine,

A crime scene in waiting,

A tadpole a mermaid

A Hubble gas cloud.

Left toes pinch a right toe,

And the feeling is so

Down there, so far,

That I am a beam.

Or walking so far

Even my shoulders ache from pacing

And my calves, oh

I am a sirloin.

Or this or that messy wonder,

Fearfully and sloppily made.

But all adheres
Till escapade.