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

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