Sometimes

a hundred million sadnesses 

pour out of 

subterranean rivers 

moaning

cavernous prayers where 

albino troglobites  cut themselves on

edges of crisp shelled stalactites streaming

 from the words of 

my eyes,

I

can’t see my own hand-let alone my 

own face

and so become echos  

in the dark

bouncing around lost 

worlds 

waiting for footsteps on

water