An Poem

I'm pretty sure I wrote this within the last year. I'll probably put something up above it, so that I don't have to look at it every time I open the blog.

Unglued

when you are unglued
your parts start to trail behind you
like bits of an exploded spacecraft
unloosed
hinges, nuts, bolts
near-- but not-- attached
not functional

Oy

and yet the world still drifts along
and you gather in a basket
the jumbled parts
hobbling along
catching something (probably essential)
again

Yes, yes!
I'm coming
I will attend

But my heart is bleeding out
If I could but find rest
perhaps I could reassemble
     (slightly)

Or

perhaps
if I could but find
someone who could listen

Earth-bound, clockwork man
If I recall-- I don't know if I do--
The clockwork condition
was caused by too many wounds
in the first place.

I will rust if I cry too long.
I may cry forever.

But this much I know:
moving keeps the rust at bay
      for now.

How do you become real again?
When-- how-- will I gain flesh and blood again?
How do I become myself again?

Is it true, what they say?
Is it true that God heals all wounds?
Is it true that He can turn
     try into do
     a stone into flesh
                         or bread?
The unreal into real?

They say
He created man from a clot of blood-- or clay--
a wound, beginning to heal-- a piece of raw material
should I not qualify?