UNTINGLED (NAPOWRIMO 2015 #16)
no monsoon winds can cool
my feet to death’s pit
or “unseeming” does slight
hairs on the hands rise:
frozen front tips and
frozen from within;
though wind is but all
that touches now —
the amiable bitter knife
that pierces me itself:
or that which plays
ghostlike piano
on my legs untingled
