this state it cannot be sound   for seeing through   the day with fresh eyes   try to lick these bits   back into place   these tanks bore there wintry weight   to wake to these scraps of morn   it bears a stone   and that’s what i’ve become   these legs are built upon a surly demise   we all reach for a hand in which we will guide   let’s sit quiet and we shall not stir   your mouth is fragrant   and lassoing this room   and never is too long to date   your crusty petals are prying away   pails of cheer have become stains