In the shifting consolation of my own paranoia–
pardon the adriftness, but stay.
In a turn of phrase, wrapped up in the same sheets
of metal coil, matted clay.
Oh, it’s words, but never just:
when tendons jump at lip formations,
globular base to overreaching lust,
Tell me I am that thing again (acerbic probes undo the versed humility).
Cradle the rusted memory on my golden arm (pity it in its imperishability).
All directions now known as many limits (that present the possibility).