Autopoeisis

is

unravelling my hands

to show you underneath

sterile A & E lights

old footpaths. Tracks to my mind

and down hallways, peering

into compartmentalised lives

between white gowns and black wires

strapped to hard blue linoleum.

it’s cheap poetry on cheaper buses,

nibbled pens and dry ink

pressing into the odd napkin

a fat moth, pinned down—

and the pasts and presents and futures

a continuous slick thread.