twenty-four hours after my destruction

the world is waxing, firing my bones
inside some arid furnace where they'll char
like ash leftover from a potters kiln,
peppering the pavement,
quickly swept away.
the world drops down and slides into its shell.
the sky is damp:
i ache, i ache, i ache.

the world is sharp, a stapled envelope
with no one's name and no one's address known.
i stuff myself inside.
so cramped and dark:
i ache, i ache, i ache.
the world is wide. i stretch
my arms to hold it but it crumples.
forced descent:
i ache, i ache, i ache.

the world is firm. it squeezes me like clay
it pokes me into strange, uncertain shapes
like paperclip dolls spread out on the floor
for Not One Soul to touch or throw away.
i shiver in this ancient unsolved maze.
the slow decay:
i ache, i ache, i ache.