Clumsy At 29

 With a fox tail, 

I brush my many tiny selves into a pile.

Reflections through the broken drinking glass.

it seems that At 29, 

i've still not mastered the art of holding, 

Of forming a fist around what I intend to keep

Once the floor is clean of me

 After I've thrown myself away.

I'll pick up a plastic cup from the cupboard, this time

I’ll keep trying to end the thirst.