crisp carpal twists

Restless. I fight the movement grasps of my heart and how hard I have fallen. These rude awakenings, the fragments that hide warped versions of our speech. How do we even begin to start again when yesterday was farther than we have ever been. I am carved back, peeled with the center slippery and bunched, worn soft as silk. Collections of visions, my paragraphs melting digitized into monitoring maps of this moment and the next. I feel the chasms of my body, the numb networks pearling up my spine and waiting for the deep drama of sleep. Continents pushed from the edge of a cloud, this waking reality just a sliver and I am recognizing the six realms that guide and stitch the life I am living. Shallow breath, I am trying to focus on the possibilities that dribble down my chin, the overflow of available and how I forget and forget. Crisp carpal twists, these nerve masses inside yet outside, what am I if not the tingling sensations of flesh.