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