The feeling of a constant cut out
comparison — the fragment of another I hold
in my head beats me dead hands down.

What defence is there against this? Two
routes — I am worse or I am better and I am
between the two of you.

The top rots — the care I took on every book
just so much wasted time compared to the
trained, agile gutter.

Habit takes a long time to break; softly, a
pine wheezes, scrapes, a few grains tumble
off the top of the heavy dune.