Sticky Prints

my poetry is stuck in my head

it doesn't touch the world i do

with prints of flesh i press into the tangible

while my words print only on paper and neurons

i want my words to travel through the woods

and reach out to the trees the leaves

the branches

traverse across the mud and scum and squish of

the real

because that's where

truth is

found

in the sparks the pricks and the

red glistening drops you

can feel and see and smell and know

because it is there

in your mind

while it pinches

the cloak

of reality and sticks to

your skin is

the dirt under your nails

so they are left in

the prints you leave

in flesh in dust

on the doorknobs of life.