Age
wrinkles slither
over the desert of my skin.
so many beached eels
on a saggy road,
twitching in packs,
a seine no memory can evade,
not even a breath.
maybe i’ll try verbal cobwebs,
the art of weaving
creased old skin.
maybe i’ll hunker down
to crab-grip pens,
copying the mayhem
on my throat.
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