It must make sense to synchronize a body
into a series of the complex; rust unpolished.
Less sense, however, to digest the susceptibility
of the rough, with the raw, with the weary
To the orphans of this gawky road, can’t even
I’ll pretend it’s alright, it is as much as it isn’t
You’d give it all, just to gain it all
Don’t. Even for a minute
Convince your other self
That woodpeckers carve because they sculpt.