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,
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