My gut Rickety

An aching reverence on my shoulder holds my spine by the neck,

As i groan in secret, at length

My gut rickety, like a chalk with a gap at the end

Beckoning winter heat from the west

When I step outside, the door falls

i am unsure about the door

is it a door or a million moth?

the day holds nothing, after all.

only a translucent touch,

hints of yellow, or i forgot 

sprint so fast, halt

face-down on the strickets they lie

touch them with an arm

because they love them,

as do i,

and i really do

the ground of the desert,

the wailing peasant.