I’ve misplaced
my footing
on this road,
unrolled and unraveled,
become undone.

It is not
anything unusual.

My ankles have always been
the weakest part of my body,
next to my wrists
and sense of ambition.

I curl backbone.
I beat on ribs.
I am constantly moving,
constantly, constantly.

I can barely be recognized
anymore for what I used to be.

The branches are dry, dead,
and easy to crack though.
I find myself mute.

At least I am
still on my feet.

I have reveled in the lesson
on tongue and take the
time to taste the air.

I am not broken ankles and
strained wrists. I am something
more: potions and comedy,
spanish in the morning and
trembles in the night.

I am the day. We are all the day,
and it is too much
and it is never