Self Portrait with Nerves

Colour of skin, nearly blue

Rivering through cities, nerves are hot lava

Long, narrow, now shaven, face

Nerves the roots of the tree

 

Inventing thirst

How does one get used to this

 

State of affairs

Nerves the cracked mirror

I walk as though I were catching myself

 

From falling

Nerves the rhizomes of stars

I stand as though bones held sway

 

Not sinew, muscle or nerves

The lines that bind you to the sentence are

 

Nerves

I grow a writing callus

And have stopped making judgements

God’s language of reversal

 

In which poison is food and juice venom

 

Tunes the Nerve Language

And I am telling you all this

 

Such that you imagine

 

Something else