Pieces of me find it easier to be wracked than to make it -- just.
Something about towing the line creeps in,
something of a subtlety not quite grey enough for academic insults.

When it's tears, it's over the cliff enough
and somewhat of a comfort.

When it's inability to move, there's something there, too,
that holds on.

The slighter feelings make their faults,
the ones that charm but cause the actual lines.
Later on, the lines are nice; in the meantime, pieces like shoulder and wrist
find the idea of permanence -- or permanence of calculus -- a bit too
inconclusive a prospect.

They and the ankle will take the tears instead.

Written in 2008.