print previewback LISA WELLS
We must be coming down
for we feel the subcutaneous lace
of strychnine unstitching in fitful
intervals. Once awash in tracers—nested
parentheses—yield now to the muted
sitcom in the TV room. I reached into
the interstice between the loveseat
and La-Z-Boy to touch your hand.
You have kept me, so successfully
from mirrors, where the peaking stand
to vanish, examining illusory blemishes.
This sickness is peripheral. It dodges
the dead-on gaze like the glancing
stars. I woke from thought’s collapsing
inside my own pupil, blown, wormhole
to the soul, sorry for all I’ve said aloud. 
Cain Flees
Chore Wheel
We must be coming down