Written by Dagmar Morgan

my insides are not reliable

            they are the leaning tower of pisa

            or a steady decline

my faith sometimes is a maths equation

            it has no proof

and i am not a good solution

my hands are not a fold

            of prayer

they are two palms holding onto the wall

like i might fall from just trying to stand

but my eyes, He has made them drinking bowls

            hot water and lemon

they are healed papercuts

my legs sometimes, are still two splinters     

holding up a slanted wall

but i’ve heard, that with the right engineer

            even pisa

has begun to straighten out

            one slow inch at a time