Poem eighteen

dear me,
sleep on my belly leaves my body feeling heavy & hot yet hollow typing light so my tree trunk fingers don't smash tiny keys my hands full in gargantuan sleep they don't feel even the weight of their own pressing in the morning my arm shot through with lightning things like funny bones remind there is sensation almost makes me cry to know it can be lost & unthought pain hurts most when they find the cure for worry that will be the end of feeling I cried once a route canal a natural side effect of the anesthetic they said it was expected but why did I feel sad about no feeling in my face why was it real crying I began thinking of death which comes to me mostly on planes or in the skidding toward collision but it was a sense of death a senseless living I never want to feel it again tho this is pretty close my hands rubbing because I make them say so don't be so melodramatic it's just nerves but what if my nerves say what they like & that thing leaves be on the scout for replicable sensations or innocent songs maybe will do I'm near sighted but nearing the not seeing tradition maybe I don't want to see the inside what ticks my explaining will improve I'll find new words to translate the being I've constructed what you'd call hands or soul a flood of feeling to part with a moving breath you can't get hung up on these things keep liking keep doing never provide yourself the option of failure even if nothing else seems to be seen or sense I sense the wavering in your words what makes you think I'm enjoying this this constant intake of air & sound can people die in their sleep if they have no sense no loss of see no thinking to thing about

move,

               Hands