latelymy mind is a dreamy soupYours, polished rosin.I stand grey as a doorwayTo embody sleepmy chance to mishearwhen you whisper a namecould be mine,could be anyone’s.and I stand grey as a doorway.a fear.A question markhidden in vowelsThey ring truer than chimesfragile and funnylike Braille on a wooden doorScared, to trace silver namesI cower, dogmaticleak a silent tear,It winks like a small cut starand fades to grey in the doorwayYou should paste it in a yearbook,printed.Defined in curvature yet cornered like algebra.Fractions were easiest to swallow,but the point of a decimalis to make some kind of sense (¢),so divide yourself by 2, and get me