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