I’m a waste of space,

Sometimes,

I think,

The way I butcher the time, spread

like a sticky centerfold in front of me,

The way it’s exhausted,

Marauded.

The way I stretch out the fibers

Of all the gifts

Until they’re stiff.

A dough that’s unusable

Settles like a stone on my desk,

(Plunk).

I’m a joke of in-between

Things,

The way I take my liminal

Shudderings

And turn them into rice-paper

Thin phrases that crumble and peel,

Like the glue meticulously peeled off hands

Under desks at school,

Or Breton buckwheat crepes

Whose edges have gone dry and crisp, uncovered,

Curling up

And gathering sad mold in the fridge.