Dry tongue. Sand on calves. Chapped past the lips. Blisters all rub. Itchy between the toes. Sweat between shoulder blades. Head rolling ’round in a opaque hamster ball. Balance leans forward, back, left, right, swirl.
I’d grab your hand. I’d guide you. But my own hand reaches for illusion. I’d seen you, but then you were four, or seven? Lately, too long, my own hand needs my own.
paroxysmal harlequin 