Among other things, I am a sweater-wearer.
Comfort passes my ears and slips into the tubes

of my body, wandering until it comes across
a clear wall of sorts, a barrier above my diaphragm
and splitting my ribs in two.

My face is covered completely, the folds of the sweater
gathering at my shoulders and swooping down,
even as far as my belly. The protrusion
presses at my bones and pulls at my ankles.
The swelling of my fingers
trap the only piece of jewelry I wear.

Etcetera, the finest of nothings, my drunken
lifting and heaving with its own breath.

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