Slap face-down in puddle,
spitting out spilled well-water,
sputters of storm-drains,
cold finger-skeletons crack and jab,
scalpels twist in knuckles,
tendons burn like dry-ice.
I follow what threads I can –
like hair-ball, fur-ball, a shower’s
blocked plug-hole – loose ends,
I came back here –
all I found was childish folly.