Tired

At night the words leave

and other things supplant them

my brain roars like the mouth of a pipe

congested by old ocean, thrashed by new foam, finally choked

by the settling

of what is new and old at once.

Instead of words now, images:

tuna brandishing tails beating opera out of mockful air

sharks sliced, pink meat soft like mother-love

eyes I saw today, eyes I did not see, eyes I may never see again,

fishes of the underworld deprived of eyes, knowledgeless as to their value

for all things are after all relative. Example:

At night

the great tragedies are a chill up my arm-

-forest of hairy tumbleweeds because someone left a window open;

the great mysteries lurk in the domestic dark anywhere within which a singular

monster of fur, fangs and meowlings could be planted to spring

to flower my feet

with the fear of blood.

And the eyelids like garage doors

want to close on the clutter of unused stuff behind:

shiny blue garden spades, irises wheezing to vacuum last glimpses

Pupils yawning from the gulf of a flattened tire

one last view of some version of you

picasso’d into my night brain

for I may easily never see you again

in this way.

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