[Feet of an Apostle, by Albrecht Durer]
I watch my hands reach in opposite directions to grasp
a rolling ball with the right, a wet paper bag with the left.
My right foot must aim to arrive at a sock and the left
to textures of rug and while there must register
how a wood floor feels. And then my spine necessarily reads
what is behind me, belly straining to oblige, bared
breasts extending. My heavy mouth open, empty, waiting.
My head pivots guarding the slippage. I keep on slipping.
I must get me back.