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Cold water sea change

Unending and bland as the day I was born

And my mouth twice as dry,

With withered digits, buried legs,

And two good front eyes, flat.

But you can tell I love you by the words I say…

Why there is no where to go but up.

You can tell by my tone.

You can tell by the time I spend spend spend

With you.

My God, look at my hands…

Look down at my hands,

You know,

If I were a more sensitive man

I could run around, wild, and we could fix this

City,

By God, it could be a paradise.

My God, look at my hands

And how the blood pours out,

What is it that all this means to me?

What is that it needs from me?

But there I stand in the kitchen, knife in hand,

A silly Jew, slating the beef,

Draws out the blood,

Degenerates the essence

But I’ve said that before.

What good it does…what good it does.

Drawn,

Talk about drawn,

Thin,

Why I can barely feel my hands and feet, up to my elbows

Up to my knees,

Numb…

A phantom pain, maybe, but what good is a memory?

My God

My God,

Is this really me?

A thousand miles down,

Alone, at the bottom of the sea?

Is this really it,

What does your mother tell you?

Is this really all the bother?

A scrap of dried cloud/cloth

To smother out the rest?

A dried up utopia,

Just add water

Brine

Soak it overnight.

Is this really me?

A thousand miles down,

Alone, at the bottom of the sea?

Jesse S Mitchell

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