These lines are always long in the making,
stunted, shy and waiting at the tip,
on the far side where thought meets practice.
Carrying the weight of pretence and importance
they stumble and lie in silence falsely,
admitting nothing but intent,
not stretching as far as content.

I try not to test the boundaries of style,
structure, grace, or integrity,
holding it all together with a faint semblance of

In the end the snake bites its own tail, startled
at the pain seething up the serpentine spine,
and the suggestion, the apple of its eye,
creeps with legs borrowed,
as I learn more about the function of my fingertips.


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