Torture the clay
The tatters of my cherished life
feel too tight on my body -
bloated by the pitch in my veins,
slowing my heart, desaturating
and fogging my machinations.
I can't let it all go.
The wind may fail to dance on my skin
but this sack of meat must be made
to be the ghost of freedom.
I cease the comfort of food.
I force the sweat until failure.
There is no elation in this effort
but the muscles begin to remember and
the springs elastify as they should.
There is joyless work to be done.