this poem is feeling a little touchy
today, with sticky fingers
and sandy toes. it’s a little rough
around the edges, see? and
slightly in the gritty throes of
not-so-fuzzy form. it’s warm
to the touch, too much so –
a fever dream of spiky
scorching strains. it stains
the hands and boils the veins
with tacky tender ink. in fact,
we think we might just slip its
sharp and slimy self into the void
and leave it where it sits;
then wash our hands of it.
In April, we poem.