Walking Stick
Being so low that I cannot breathe
For sand between my teeth
Being so on top that a wave pierces my midsection
And flows all around me
And then I form together into a mirror
That's unfamiliar once again
The frame remains consistent always
but it doesn't jail me if I try
The hairs on my head hold no swiftness or abandon
I'm ticking and ready to violently split
Or die and erode I don't know which
Pick my brain for your examination causes me to twitch
I'm only here for the dead
Everything I know has already been said
My reflexes are wholly spasmodic
And my thoughts of action are purely chaotic
I exist for the extensible lasting time
On the groping vine
Abandoned in a shafted mine
Copyright 1992 Angela Y. Rancourt