my mind is pushing against the walls of its imagination.
Lift your hand along the gentle slopes, you’ll find
it lagging into your sleep behind the soft back palm
with an unfocused catch of grasses of sorts
blurring into backwards sunlight.
It is itself,
wishes to be seen
like the gnats. held
close to a forehead – a lava lamp
full of it.
a river touching bubbles and rocks
full of it.
But you can’t pinpoint it
exactly like that.
you can’t make it rhyme
like a metaphor/
you can’t make it pass
can’t make it season
like a memory/
can’t make it stay
past your slipping ski socks in boots/
you can’t even assemble it
between glowing clatter of silverware
first thing in the morning
because it won’t be there
when you stare at it, all armored in notes
dancing away at fingers and keys
when its clamoring around your spine
Its not the same
how it or not it appears
between tinsel threads or and or
and something else takes its place
like giraffes’ spots?
the loss of wings?
a warm pocket under your tongue when you say
“je cherhe, mon cheri!”
not knowing quite what you said or where you heard it or who its to
in a city of eyes?
clarity ages too,
but it never dated
quite like carbon
never dated quite like me
ten years ago
who I can’t quite remember
much about anyway.