Every ounce of myself,
Is a stone stuffed inside a straw sack,
A brimming basket strapped to a mule’s back,
A wrinkled cloth hanging dead on a rack.

Every ounce of myself,
Is a pebble tumbling down a tombstone hill,
Water wrestling with a maddened mill,
An icy droplet bleeding down my windowsill.

I feel the sag and the occasional tug,
Of weight more worthless with the years.
I feel the hassle and the spin,
And yet it’s as if it moved outside of me.

Perhaps the stones ripped through the fabric flesh,
The wrung creature gave way,
And the wind snatched all that it may,
For nothing sounds less real,
Than saying this all forms a part of me.