When we’re in the flesh’s nest
you know my trenches get erased.
Between the plays I could confess
secrets buried in my rib cage.
The low tides leave my driftwood there
exposed, imprisoned in the sand.
Don’t clench, don’t grip
don’t raise the stakes,
I refuse to feel again.
When we’re playing in the canvas,
the two majestic, nervous brush strokes,
we switch the roles of praying mantis,
my armor blows up in your smokes.
I see my blood between your teeth;
for once the pain is trivial.
It’s real, it’s here,
it’s not inertia.
I yield and feel
I love, I think.
©2018 Troy Towns