On the days when I have forgotten my own name, spun
nothing resembling anything but chaos, tossed caution,
bedclothes and straw to the wind, un be
-friended both gold and bones,
that silence cannot be unwrinkled,
and this angry sky knows nothing
of order. Tell me how to uncrumple
my poems and my smile, how many
miles it might take to straighten these
dark roads. Fold me again and again
and again, until two points might
meet in the middle, clashing stars.
Find yourself another universe, may
-hem. This one’s ours.
prompted by Quickly in November, day 8.