It's a shoegaze kind of day, caps lock--our limbs
are fridge-cool, numb from poking.
We suddenly stare at a little light
in the back--not at an exit sign,
but that's how it translates:
how the image rearranges,
once upside down,
once,
the reflection in spoons.
Our disorientation is a warning label--
even though it's obvious, we need
a reminder, that small voice rattling.
We are faithful and abstract,
the crazy and the stupid. We make animal noises,
clawing at what makes sense, the contours of the intimate.
Keeping our heads down, we become the possible.