sleeping is hard
but waking is worse—
when The Itch at the tip of your toes
spreads in little twitchy red nerve bits
inwards; your heart bites onto
anything hard, feel gold desperation ooze
in thick onto pale chest—give me
balance—
wrongness starts at your knuckle lines
so wiggle fingers, shake It
off—into the abyss, into the wide wide world
of fail, of mistake--
get It off, off!
get It--
scurry like the black ant into a
grass forest, carrying all of It away,
running It deep and hard and good into
the pavement as you drive
It out of your aorta so scarlet with
sweet, lusty red fears.
silver shinings: reflection of
soul and shadow means you can see
only one half of the face—
the rest
i’ve left in the darkness,
pray the gloom does not devour
such pretty sparkle
dreams that wrap
the constellations into violets,
explode brilliant
sharp sea glass into the stained
horizon.
