It would be of no good to speak these things to you.

In what way I was still returned to the ground

Even beneath it, intact with my puerile need to repeat

my—self and my mistakes.

Who would not climb the wall for

a peer over the edge?

The cautionary tale is for the fool’s errand,

And I am no fool.

I am as my hands are,

Twisting in on themselves

And bursting at the seams.

I can——not contain the ache for

sensation.

Just as I could not contain the

grief as I fell.

Nor the agony as I

crawled my way back.

IT’S. HAPPENING. TO. EVERY. BODY.

Deep in the long wood

I thought I saw something

Hiding behind the trees

And when I went to the lake

It was here