reading lines, worn pages
of your past, I grasp something
for a reason: subconscious strands
of earth and hair: forces of redemption,
causing me to contemplate positions of
the stars and divination.

maybe, I’m afraid of psychic power
and the past; maybe real poets,
unlike me, will use their bodies
recklessly and never write a word

or care for more than grinding
flexibility, the rough skinned
fingerprints beneath their
numb extremities.

© Ben Ditmars 2015

Image Source: Flickr