Identity

A singular image
on fibers of the threaded kind,
glued, glued,
probably the last one
you will take in a few years,
glows in the paleness
of this sheet.

Who are you?

There is a tender, loving God
who knows
but does not want to tell.
As the air from your lungs
pounds, pounds
against your chest,
the pressure from
a thousand uncertainties
slices through the skin.

What are you here for?

Your legs, your feet -

Where do they go?