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
chest lifting and heaving with
its own breath.