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Two nights a week we gather ourselves together
nailing ourselves inside for shipment
packing it all away
pulling in like evading earthworms
repeating its fragments to get to the cooler more private
end of natural given life and self-made seclusion

It's the package I'm waiting for
hanging at the dock by my nails
feet dangling far from the water
my shoes trying to slide off each
time I tremble to the prospect of
something living in that sea parcel

What would I be nailed to
I haven't bothered to notice what
wood I'm nailed to
I only hang here waiting

© 1996 David Usner