Changed. The wounds on a poem retold. My feet
Micro expressions express the micro
Aggression that is hiking campus on
Forgotten old rolls of toilet paper.
Dimmed but the words remain. Throbbing Into
A lack. Into the yellow heat. Proverb
Of feeling. Of the hillside cliffs. My milks—
A foot filled with fiery embers of pain.
Barkeeps—they keep my words lubricated.
They can recite them from memory. Like
Substance. Like fiction. Like lips that never
Make the wrong base spirit. The brown-red of
Stiffness. Pain. A limp. A rock in the heel
Of my foot. I try not to limp. Only.