I fall apart now.

I drip
onto a plate
underneath me.

I can’t help it.
The fire is warm.
I am so sleepy,

and I lack arms
to get myself
back together.

We are inside,
the things
that used to be


I think I used to be
a cow, or inside a cow,
or some part of a cow.

I don’t know, but there
was grass somewhere
and I seem to remember

its taste. Maybe
sunlight also.
But now

there is this fire.
It unlocks the sun
I have held.

The sheets of something
next to me used to be
cow, too, but different.

They try to talk to me,
but I can only catch
a word or two,

because we are so
different, and so much
has happened since

the time when we were
cows. The potatoes
and gherkins, I don’t

even bother with.
They just say
their own names

over and over again,
and it seems to me that
we should forget

our names, now that
(as I believe) we will soon
become people.


For NaBloPoMo and PAD Challenge, Day 19 (prompt: write a wheel poem).