I write on my half day,
stand tall on my full day,
flick the ashes from my corduroy jeans,
with pock marks immortalised as burns –
the full despair of misspent time.
I curl up into a ball hereonafter,
and move mountains,
the forever – who would have thought –
a meeting of hands that are not there.
Moved and weathered veins,
predicting a path
of lattice and overture.
A delicate crossing of fingers,
in the opaque of the juridical.
Care not, care all.