Staring with half

A stroke, was June, took running
all his good bits like how he’d tense
in rare old wind talking back to it,
how a lobe would the person underneath
the front of his skull, was me.
Took his gait, half his body in stutter,
now departed but present and clothed
unlike how it used to be,
was hot then cold, molting then free.
Where to hawk a pound of me
perplexes the both of us, him
there beside his head, was sold,
I elsewhere in hope of purchase
pleading to buy his thinking back
as I weigh a pound and rise to hack.

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~ by Jeremy on December 20, 2010.

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