as a fraction,
i stuttered without hipbones
and rolled a glass tube over some
and the results were
powdery and blue

it's not that i'm skinless,
finally the Angel of mercy
comes crying back
to my mattress,
and i sing her torch songs
and weave a hat
from straw and eggshells

you will be soldered
and i'll still keep the torches
on the walls,
mold and grass-stains outlive
their unifying theories
and i'm still holding
tiny fragments of
something you lost

if you tell me the shape
i'm in,
i'll let your license

i will not be reduced
even further

© Malachus Monk