Spasms

These quakes and shivers of mine, Are they tales forebode? Language spat, drool untold, Encrypted bits by line. Does the anchor sit? Cracks in dorsal fins, Pinch the nodes whose nervous system knows, Better than to think. Juniper pine, ferment pepper mend, The ache of later hours, To quench the essence ever tends, To that which self devours. Canticles of echoed places, Hummed in spaces felt at once, Coded corpus, temporal traces, And seemly more than nonce. If only I was less than this, As only now's enough, To be all, I'd be remiss, Missing all the stuff.