Lame-A Poem by Michael Witkowski

streaks of sun bless my
void
where not a time begins
all exasperations end

mustn't thou learnt to
swim or can't ye- thou canst
learn it cheaper in
a club - her swipe
next to: what are
you mumbling?

a lamb hums her
explosive pronounced t's
the sesame to her mind
always straightly linear
behind the tool of t's hides
it wants rage to somersault

not jog or walk- they
challenge poise - equilibrium
not. Scales are tipped to
one side but which things?
if sesame's environment
tightens muscles for

a benign expression,
then my sun wakes