& even through the sudgedly illness
my skin & stomach are filled with nervous ampersands,
their curves making a trampoline of my belly.
Is this awkward?
-what it is to feel caught?
I always thought it would be softer than this
(wholer than alone).
Every face blurs in and out of possible recognition.
Certainty has found the end of its extension cord
& my unknowing pulses out the door
-oozes violent from the windowcracks.
There is a torn-open sky
I might know you,
& fill your rubber boots with meaning.
Souls, black with coffee breath
break open my lungs and skull
filling me up so fast
(like an unforgiving run-on sentence)
& all I can do is sit stunned
& grab the squiggled end of every ampersand.