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.