I am sore this morning
tethered to a body
to this less than imagined
music of bones and skin
that betrays me
that swallows sunlight
in its dark insides
its catacombs
too small to hold
poetry and delight
that binds
imagination and flight
to roped muscles
and pressed nerves
till I feel a kinship
with stones
and tree bark
and soft bodied frogs
and newborn fish
caught in swells
everything bruised
and alive
trying not to swallow
its soul
