I have mountains in my ankles. I carry an anvil in my chest. When I have thoughts they come as bars of lead. Can I walk towards you in such a manner. With the architecture of cathedrals. A citadel in my back. I live alone in my own body. Zeppelins will flow from my mouth and then what. I know there are probably better things to be doing like lying down or rolling into the side of an ocean. A squat. Too often do I feel the gentle curve of a hammer. There it is, again, someone mistaking me for a building, a tower. A block of marble or soapstone to be gnawed into something beautiful.