17 January, 2020
it is a tongue holding itself like an ear. its rims can’t keep
their shape. they lisp into the mattress, leave the sheet
apostrophed against the wall, head slapped, gagged in froth,
dreams tipped, bound in bruise-fade.
in the morning it is an eye. it draws white-flash fences
on its locked doors. where are the tarps that were
always being hung, tall, reflecting their stains back
onto the skin? the feeling that even having a tongue
makes it evil, and especially if that tongue were spinning
over an ear. loose a tire, suck in language that
is always the stomach’s shafts and axels slipping.
in the morning it also finds that it has dreamed of
contact lenses, big as a hand, dry and crooked. lick out
the mouth’s inside till it is round and stripped.
it wants to be the tongue rubbing sore the wet teeth but
has more limbs to air, cloth hutches to cut and bolt.
Before I put on my glasses the book forces itself on the poster
which peels into its circle in glue stutters, matches the cracked
cover’s swoop, just as easily scurries when my brain cuts the
dimensions. It liked being deepened, I can tell by its shadow’s little
shudder. The commisure of sun and fan like a certain smile. I
dreamed a yellow badger was on fire but wrapped in a wet page
emerged unharmed. I slept on my glasses and dislocated their
wires, a fish skeleton on the wall. A trick of the light like being sure
you’re bleeding when you’re not, or that, unthinking, you’ve
slashed the brittle irons of a thing. Without glasses it’s difficult
to walk down steps. The stairwell is sucked into a stench of distance,
cheeks bowed, gagged on hellos and green daylight tapping glass.
Things are too thin or too thick, and things I didn’t say yesterday
try to dry their dribbles on my reflection’s lips, the ones made only
of light: its hand on my back, breath down the necks of potted plants
horny for the hope of water but held in a dust rut on the lens.