SONNET: Someone with a Glitch

i have these bare-boned fingers
that crack when they grasp for air
and scrape up nothing. i roll up
my sleeves, wait for the song
to belt from my lungs and my straining
throat—my chest is burning
with every daunting breath. my skin is the guru
sitting on the ground, waiting for
someone with a glitch
to seek out wisdom and unwind
from the perils of drought. this is what
days alone in summer reap from me:
all days converging, congregating
to make one long blood vessel.

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