New Orleans

some people are vessels for multiplicity

while others have edges more bound,

insides more like solid rubber

here where people paint their porch ceilings

blue, a heavy fruit tree

water damage

I can zone out on something imperfect

but sometimes I get the feeling

my brain is turning into one flavor of mush

tears fill my face in a balloon way

and so I breathe instead of cry

a few warm days of winter make a year a bag

collapsed

something was new,

an exception to the rule

account for your baseline because

the rest is random
icing, nothing

instrumental

when bliss runs its course

and the week’s teeth are bore

gripping to the oval of time like

a greasy carousel pole, up and

down to remember how it felt
to want a horse