SWTLO(micro)

Follow @ptrck on Micro.blog.

a picture of the poem, written on a typewriter

Dry hands wring themselves
dry wit, too.
We are anxious, on edge
body tense, only the balls of
our feet touching the ground
even while seated.
Shoulders tight
jaw holding the stress
The cool morning air provides
respite when inhaled
But this body has forgotten how
to release.

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