Like a beaten
drum, or some hapless planet
bombarded by comets,
I guess you have
no choice but
to abide all the torment,
of this moment, all its tiresome
insistence and it's chronic
aggravation;
for the sensation
you experience is no
technical problem,
but rather, a tectonic one:
for durability's sake,
beneath topsides of skin,
the meat of you really is
made out of plates—
whose main job is
less to contain
than to grind at each other
continuously.
