wound / wound wind / wind

***

With waking, words hidden inside an ear crawl deeper and bury themselves behind folds and dreams. Arms all around. Quiet arms and warm. There is a voice swimming in that dark: I’m bleeding.

It isn’t complete. There are slashes and fades; forms to be made and focus to recapture. So he goes to reach with arms pinned down, sliding elbows and wrists, wriggling into the cool and embracing soft. There are more cuts in the atmosphere. Autumn is the gradient shifting to grey. Repeated words. 

Two bodies bend up and one folds down. Socks sponge up wet from flat beneath feet and when they are soaked the floor is no more dry than when he was on his back but there is a shine to it. Viscious strings suction when he goes to move them. Repeated words.

A hand, one or another, reaches against the eyeless black, feeling. Fingernails disappear. Knuckles too. This is the act of a blind man searching. Limbs displaced. The heart races. No manna to tether the senses but fingertips reappear all the same. All the same. Words repeated.

There are eyes on the table wet with light. Toward them there is a hand reaching. Reaching away from a chest tightening, and away from more gasps crawling into an ear like -wigs. Lightning paints the floor. Fingernails grow -tips and -tips grow knuckles. Phalanges follow. Metacarpals and carpals to bind them. A radius blossoms unhindered and tails until eyes are palmed and made dry by dark. Heavy breathing continues as return commences and I am sick to myself.

With waking, there is light through the window and the air is cold.

With waking, I am sick to myself.

Some friends got to see this a while ago, and when pressed I confided in them that it might go somewhere further. It hasn’t. 

Some instruction: This happens slowly.