from Hædron

Chris Holdaway

                                                                        I woke
Tied in a doorframe, but the knots were so
Tired, or perhaps even purposefully gentle, I wonder
If I have been doing a terrible job of being my own
Prison guard all along.  Neighbourhood caught like
A face that has never seen
The neck it rests on—spinning in place—no way to know, only chance to fall
A sorry sort below.  Bouncing on worrywarts to a halt,
The wheel of a car that need never start again. . . .I throw
Down clenched shoulders, as if to apologise for pretending to know
Anything about feeling.  And so far everything has been
An apology of some kind—deluded like thinking
You can come to grips with the air
Or ocean.