-Springform Ghazal-

A suspension bridge runs from my lower back
to interchange my nape.

Tension is made of speed limits less than 5mph.
In bumper-to-bumper twinge, with my knackered clutch foot.

Even railroads have switches
yet my shoulder blades don’t interrupt the current.

This is an untenable strict fiber diet.
I could chew calm or something savory.

But It doesn’t take a roadblock to constrict;
never reason a prerequisite for ligaments.

So I am wound.
Wounded is the same torque, same letters even, past-tense.

Poems have no place in puns, say they.
It just winds wind into the winding.

What I need is a bowling ball and some gravity.
I could break hard into this twist, and blunt trauma my muscles.

It seems there is something relaxing about

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