Fifty-Five

sometimes the hours in the day stick together
like the skin between my knees
when i'm sitting still and listening
to the day

facing a blank wall
i cuddle in fetal form,
closing and opening my
eye petals on words like
compassion, love and
me

me is the strangest world of all;
i sometimes think if i can
shut my eyes tight enough and
inhale deep enough
that word will disappear
like water spilled on
immature black ink strokes
or
turpentine poured over
orange paint stains-

but no; it sticks
between my knees and
behind my ears
and i have to do more than
breathe and close my eyes
to coax it to sleep
or sing it away