Sometimes I hide in the little notches of time,
when the day sews itself into a corner,
and curls all ten fingers up into the folds of my soul.
There, veined in the lifeblood of every poet,
(a charred curiosity) the brightest shades of syllabic colors lie;
drowsy, dreaming, until a warbling toll from
some subconscious bell sends them drilling
into the paper of my mind.
A plutonic verse may then print off my tongue,
stolen from some underground vault riddled with sea air,
and tapped into by inquisitive mind-fingers.
Or I might churn out a slip-slap apostrophe catastrophe,
To watch it dance haphazardly across the floor like fading firelight.
I breath the mystery of the mind, piqued by simplest bird song,
longing to be it’s rival, but never simple enough
to be the kind of beautiful that kings sell countries for.
There, amongst the priceless rubble of childhood memories,
cluttered throughout useless scraps of tears
or lost fragments of arithmetic and geography,
the poetry waits. The words wait for the world
to draw them forth, as the world beckons
the words tumble out, and I am just a silver bridge.
But then the rapture fades away,






my mind feet kiss ground zero,
holding something like a poem in their sandals,
as the day unravels once again.