Ultrasounds;

Let’s weave our hands together-
Please.
It’s been long since I,
touched skin.

Those curled shoulders,
have twisted my spine-
It’s disgraceful to sit-
so still.

And those voices still feed me ideas,
that slither through those bedsheets -
arching, swimming through- hunting-
for a fragment that still cares…

They fail, of course-
those blackboards are clean and tasteless…
words don’t tie them anymore,
with any meanings;

We’ll name it anarchy,
just to hush that explosion of boiling kerosene
…those brainstorms of inspiration-
and exocytosis;

It’s the prompts that hold me back-
those aroused serpents of the past, hissing, warning-
against another crooked hurricane
of feeling.

Yet these embryos fail to vanish
…and I keep searching for
Another abortion.