Soporific, transient images float;
the shooting pain keeps me vivid
as Delauney, except my palette is
pain not paint. The limp head hangs
like an adolescent on a saturday.
My shoulder hurts.
I am lost in the corridors of my mind;
there are no signs left;
the handles have turned to dust.
My mental vending machine is empty now
except for the pain bar and the packet of agony.
My shoulder hurts.
Outside the window a man is mowing gravel;
Shall I look? Can I move?
I smash the glass and blood appears.
But there is no blood!
Then why is my vision smeared?
My shoulder has fallen off.
Cornelia Ceilings
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-broken-shoulder/
