We adapt ourselves, bend ourselves
to circumstances; as a mole, my velvet coat,
its gentle nap could brush this way or that,
my subterranean thoughts concealed
until I forgot the existence of light or mornings,
until my eyes became small and useless
and reality distorted.
And the juggernaut of my anxiety screeches
that it is myself that I must be reconciled to
as I burrow past the roots of memories -
some of them, the tirrits of ravens' wings
that fan their darkness,
others, the shuddered uncoil of earthworms,
ghosts who slip their pale search for deliverance
beside me in this chthonic universe
where my polydactyl paws grasp now
to feel everything.
Image from pixabay.