lately
my mind is a dreamy soup
Yours, polished rosin.
I stand grey as a doorway
To embody sleep
my chance to mishear
when you whisper a name
could be mine,
could be anyone’s.
and I stand grey as a doorway.
a fear.
A question mark
hidden in vowels
They ring truer than chimes
fragile and funny
like Braille on a wooden door
Scared, to trace silver names
I cower, dogmatic
leak a silent tear,
It winks like a small cut star
and fades to grey in the doorway
You should paste it in a yearbook,
printed.
Defined in curvature yet cornered like algebra.
Fractions were easiest to swallow,
but the point of a decimal
is to make some kind of sense (¢),
so divide yourself by 2, and get me
B
Braille
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