Crimps

If you sit long enough you can only cry
if you’re lucky. You play Sudoku on the easiest setting:
too closed. Two minute limit. The Sims can at least keep expanding; though where
is that lie?: a bastard toddler smashes a Lego house on the floor.
You feel a leaf—though it’s a ghost!—
brush past when the breasts are all the same: I’ve no idea:
were you the wheel in a past life? It is just a touch too much
on the tongue: you want to be a hedgehog, bat,
bear, though outside you go with a big coat
stepping over everything in your mind without action seeing
flaws in potholes and silent hooks, the kind of thing
feeling like nearly something plus far away. And you don’t want to jump—
you sound like an idiot: you play
you’re little game again only it’s not
working out how you try to force it, as if
it never was, the grid closing in, the itinerary, wizards,
fast hands running out. Then you look at them: no fingers! It wasn’t supposed to be
so far down, was it? Am I just sad? I’m nothing to do with it:
try bouldering.