by Pat A Physics
Upside down, in a time capsule, forgotten,
we journey through the creases of private, yellowing love letters.
Tobogganing between swails of painterly ideals
in an effort to clean up the dissipated dreamscapes of our minds,
our eyes fall onto the snow-shovel and get to work.
We are charged with crimes of amnesia, and drinking too much
again. The song of tinkling crispy wafers on the tray,
and a perpetual, bloody gaze that sticks us in the side, twisting.
An unperformed test that we authored in our sleep
languishing behind covered wagons, purpling cacti, and smoke-
can we be quiet enough to hear the house sigh?
Can we articulate what lies just beneath the surface of sobriety,
duel to the death with the chaos of the solar void,
and catch the one who placed his credentials in his tall puggaree?