curved walls of the skull gleam
mind scrubbed sparkling like a house
the crime-scene clean-up crew
has been through
bleached, decluttered
Marie Kondo’d
until there’s not a speck
of gray matter left anywhere
no squeak of teeth hinges
tongue-pink carpet stripped
no evidence left behind
like no one lives here
like no one has ever lived here.
eye sockets twin windows
open to your perspective
open to blue skies and
the passage of starlings.
buyer’s market.
wheel in your handtruck and start
measuring parietals. map the chi
of your frontal lobe.
hang spider plants from your occipitals.
of course this place is up to code.
of course there aren’t any ghosts.
No comments:
Post a Comment