by on August 5, 2023 :: 0 comments

wouldn’t let me out, couldn’t find me. who else could it be,
hands that size, more momentum than muscle
a car so anonymous no one remembers a driver, whether the sun
shining or clouded, who was going out, who coming n
a door in the street, ladder from a low cloud
get to almost running speed then stop and slide
on changing terrain, from mud to ice, linoleum just below the dirt

i can read the writing on the wall cause i wrote it
with a strong black marker taking three coats to cover.
the less i’m wearing the harder i am to see, not shivering
but vibrating like a bass string, not sweating but slamming
oxygen and hydrogen together to make not quite water
whether it dries to a powder or evaporates with a smell
no one agrees on — fresh lumber, forgotten fish, roses soaked in vodka

when you’re wind there’s always a way in
but so many choices can paralyze, doors and windows
in every direction, passing by, materializing then gone;
not footprints but swirl marks, like slices of fingerprints
like soft hills water’s gone through so many times they’re a comb
or a set of strings to slice things with, whether soft or hard
daytime or night, had to do something while i waited

look at anything long enough it changes, maybe becomes reflective
maybe its molecules spread a little further apart, movement
where there was stillness, faraway becoming close.
i see the sounds rather than hear them
feel colors rippling on my bare arms
time to go where i’ll enter as if already there
contextual deja vu, a dilute but palpable aha
less than a minute to receive enough sparks and tinder

editors note:

Feel like I just chased a rabbit with a pocket watch… aha, again! – mh clay

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