sticky poem

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.

Advertisement