When I was a child
I could see around corners,
Walk through walls,
Measure time in my bones.

Now I move through the streets
Like a dry scrap of paper,
Carried by winds
That sting the eyes
And crawl, like spiders,
Across the skin.

I languish and wane
In the still morning air
Of a day that will never unfold,

In a life in which drawing
The shallowest breath
Is the hum of a cold machine.

This poem originally appeared in the 2009 collection Sixty-Six.