I fall over myself,
the daily ritual of forgetting where I am,
with bruised lips and a mug full of yesterday
I close window shades, doors, eyes,
I fumble with locks and knobs and hooks
and the inevitable blindness fear—
When the world starts coming alive again
I make the seals stronger
I glue myself shut, fill the cracks
with coffee grounds,
percolate my gaps and
let the misgivings refuel.
The vain clockwork of the mind
keeps the pen to my fingers,
the paper itching…

I take a shower, hang my towel on that
rusty nail called life.
My architecture—heavy, I kneel,
face the dredges and forget it—
I am someone else, or even,
two of myself.
Water runs in all directions,
but we are all washed clean—
flesh and porcelain,
all tinted an ugly yellow-white.
The room makes a death din,
an ocean crash and then
  all is silent
but the senseless drip
that drops an ominous echo of:
you are exposed and
the towel has rusted to the nail.