tempstate
I set my life on casters
intent on leaving, certain
I would soon be gone
this resting ground, meant
only to slow the heavy inevitable
but I was stayed/weighed
by my own lovely fears
of moving, now that I had stopped
ah what trouble to begin again
my own limbs so clumbsy—
hapless with wheels and I
so wooden with apathy
the stubborn barbing of my soul
exchanging flecks of essence
with the things I hoped to waive
and the hollow carved from wandering
was at once a pleasant whole.
—ECW
