by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
ice and ice-picks in my spine
spasms soak turned as by brine
soften transform taste of gall
left too long a line and pall
swimming in bits of debris
pills blur sight weaken the knee
wait and hope for journey's end
sleep wake up nerves break extend
put forth foot and fingers feel
just remember what is real
nausea the spine won't snap
nor leave vision with a map
You alone my mind grabs on
trail in wind but center dawn
Love the day or night forsake
cradle me in mercy's wake
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