when the need to write
burns in your fingertips
instead of its usual tingle
& you pull up an empty window
& just go for it like you’re chasing
in a hard sprint after some wild thing
because the keys are always
too many seconds behind
your thoughts & over & over again
feeling the tail slip between your fingertips
so you collapse & catch your breath &
settle for describing the feeling
of a warm tailtip with the dirt-matted fur
in three colors & the residue that it left
on your fingers
because you wouldn't even
know what to do with that tiger
if you caught it
besides let it eat you because
you’re always letting tigers eat you,
regardless of whether or not
you’re still hanging on
you just want some sensation
a visceral mess of teeth & claws
mangling you into a red gullet
a craw for you to stick in
& describe & feel alive in &
get devoured so you can really
be one with the dirt & grass & trees
that you’re always too busy
telling to just stop
& be.
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