they shackle me 

to their ego-expectations,

a prison that flows.

my fingers flail,

in search of the key

to fit the lock 

to this homemade box,

where i hover in anticipation

of what lives in the dark,

waiting for the air to spark.


upon each exhalation

dust billows 

through wall cracks.

with two hands full

of ragged straw

i sweep the edges 

of it’s frame inner,


the convex-concave 

aspects of the cup –

no concern 

for how much it can hold.


and when you speak 

i head-tilt,

to catch a decibel

with naked ears,

wrapping your voice 

in the muffling mulsen

of my life-gathered illusions.


with eyes evolved 

out of ocean depths,

i can only see as far 

as i have already gone.


and you reach for me.

as i reach for you.


© M.G. Iannucci 2017

Photo: Man and Woman Parting the Sea

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