waves in the runoff pond stream of bracken
this is Time Time pats mud with his tail
gnaws sticks green and pliable
weeds cover his home like night
He wheezes into the water lets me see his eyes
spring comes Does he sleep?
We wait for winter to see him waddle again
I sit on staples each morning when I wake.
This is how you keep memories sharp.
The rose in the sky is dripping scent
in your ears like a Baptist plugging a revival.
These aren't clouds. They don't whisper anything
you'd want your mother to smell so don't take them
Your face is a box. Your face is cardboard
and I've lived seven years waiting for a box cutter.
Your thoughts have spread like air. Your thoughts
stack in the corner, house roaches, wait to be filled.
Scurrying thoughts. Thoughts that eat
your skull. Thoughts that scritter
on the walls behind posters
so I can't sleep. Your thoughts sleep
in the day, hide, flat on back, legs kicking.
Chewing through your eyes, your cardboard eyes.