We are not machines
We are not blankets
We are not these sweaters meant to crinkle with age
We are not exactly their matrix of support
Our limbs do have a little rigidness to them
A robustness not unlike that of waters deep
Steeped too
So maybe we are grounds
To justice, to punish
A firmness in footing
For what dregs do we stand our truth on
But exiled all the same