(no subject)

[claire_writes]

Untitled 5-

if you are tired enough
you will eat a peanut butter sandwhich
with oil-chain
splattered hands
at three AM.
which is why you unfurl
your hunched back from the
closed roots of a chair.
you'd never know
otherwise-
about the moebius strip of
the serving chain
or the things hands
and eyes do
in the wee hours of the morning
at their ghost-yard jobs
to soothe time
and keep the
spines of their lids straight-
you might never know
if you never left
about the thousand clumsy
ways to fracture your elbow-
or the perfect nestle
of the arch of your toes
between burrows of shoes
in the hood of a pedal strap,
and the strange up and down motion
of an ascetic bike. . .
you would never know
about all the wrong ways you
could take to get to the right place-
you would never know
about the pygmy surprises
in the endless mistakes,
you'd never hear the stories
straight from the lips of
the bereaved without
intention- in the
vacant strokes
and silences between
sweeping motions.