Common slowworm

incidents for me are always falling 
but not into place
in the larky morning stepping out
with my shoes on backwards
so as to seem to go in each direction at once

stepping out expecting 
to see the good-enough words
coming down the street few by few carrying 
bundles of wildflowers 
and their own heads in their hands

the street is empty
like a sigh oh, anguis, anguis fragilis
‍I feel ashamed of my self-severing
of my airy calm of my
giveaway eyelids - it is so difficult 

to speak and not be
split in pieces - always failing
taking the word’s head from its hands
bringing it to my mouth
to find it warm and all-in-all and yours