I am the slow-volt spine,

Vertebrae spliced from bark

Beer-drunk and thrashing

In close spurts.

I go round and round

In hopeless twists.

Boredom steals

My enskulled (ensconced) aura:

Tosses it into random buckets

That I cannot find.

So I stare, gut-hungry and pitiful.

Plants and plans and lands tend to hermit

In my book-bred brainspace:

A terrain sieved through grave debilitations.

My father moved knowingly (slowly)

In casket situations.

My mother moved briskly

(Broke)

Yet still I walk.

Still I sit.

Sudden I wake.

I know

That from 17 feet away

There are treetops taller

Than planetips or planets.

Sunsets lower than crowds.

So when I make that choice

To return,

I will land softly from the prison top

Not concrete, not versioned

Nor versed

Only masked

As Daedalus or sleep.