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.