Walking is a mound of clothes that don’t fit any more,
running, a page scrawled all over, crumpled.  

Though my diseased body feels as unlovable
as a family of rats,  

will she still hold me the way a musician
holds a smashed guitar?  

Who am I, legs no longer carrying me to places
closed to me now like raging fists?  

Icarus half-drowned, head still in the clouds, but balding,
sunburned, scratched half-raw.