How Do I Feel?               Joachim Frank

Imagine one of those copters in the desert,
its blades sharp knives,
thin as razors,
extended beyond measure,
beyond all logic
(so rare these days),
extended, for thousands of miles,
rotating steadily,
slicing the air, buildings, trees,
slicing every living and nonliving substance they hit;
animals, plants, minerals.
I’m being chopped as I stand,
I’m being chopped as I lie awake in my bed,
I’m being chopped as I sit in my chair,
and the chair with me.
Aware of my fragile state, I move slowly,
allowing the cuts to heal,
afraid that when I shake,
or even shudder,
my body will disintegrate
into living samples,
CAT-scan illustrations,
discs with oval outlines of organs
and the precise circle of my spine;
finally, the slices of my head;
all substance created to feel, to coordinate,
to move, to love,
to tell the truth.