The Little Seam

Into which an awareness
Of still being fits
Without the awareness

Of pain. It’s like a decoy
Cloak or lizard’s tail,
A jacket wriggled out of,

Leaving the predator
Holding the puzzling,
Crumpled crust of skin,

The pain that was, that let you
Slip into the little seam
Where, of course, you’ll grow

New pains to squirm out of
Next time you need to get away.