Fate has a way of preserving
I am, having previously wrought.
Events do not always
Proceed their immediate beginnings.
Sometimes the consequence
Comes in the night
Like a bottle-necked stranger
To slake all effulgent protrusions.
My mornings itch,
Poultices damp from sleeps’ gyrations.
I unwind myself,
Carving features into the scabrous mass
That has become my life.
A caricature digs into my shoulders,
The great weighty head,
My mother earth perched
High above a lagging Atlas.