“Nooks don’t get their fair due.”
Brush, hunch, scratch, itch, and then back.
Once more. Hunch, brush, itch, and scratch.
You could turn a world in this
Crack in a wall of cracked bricks.
This is your bed. You call it
Your head, your self, or your mind.
Could as well call it your flesh.
It’s short a wall on one side.
It gapes at the rest of life.
Words spill out of it each time
You try to tame them, stack them
In crisp, tight lists with pressed lips.
Out they spill once more. You turn
Like a lake in its bed, like
A worm in its case, like thoughts
In words of near see-through skins.
