-Springform Ghazal-

A suspension bridge runs from my lower back to interchange my nape. Tension is made of speed limits less than 5mph. In bumper-to-bumper twinge, with my knackered clutch foot. Even railroads have switches yet my shoulder blades don’t interrupt the current. This is an untenable strict fiber diet. I could chew calm or something savory. But It doesn’t take a roadblock to constrict; never reason a prerequisite for ligaments. So I am wound. Wounded is the same torque, same letters even, past-tense. Poems have no place in puns, say they. It just winds wind into the winding. What I need is a bowling ball and some gravity. I could break hard into this twist, and blunt trauma my muscles. It seems there is something relaxing about intrusion. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...