I am denoting my old thoughts as cerebral artifacts—

an attempt to make them feel more noteworthy

in the landscape

of my consciousness, because it matters what we name things. my name is a lie I tell people

to catch their attention, and my smile is a promise

I’m trying very hard to keep. I try not to sweat on strangers

when I shake their hands.

I find myself always hurrying to catch things

when I drop them, as if

I could break the fall of a pencil or a toothpaste tube. I feel as useful as sunscreen on an overcast day

from the inside of a windowless

basement. I feel as useful as an umbrella during

a category four hurricane. The people I love most are always loitering

on the brimming city block of my brain and making

their appearances in my best ideas. I am trying

to learn myself. Another purple night, I reach for a star

in the empty air above my face, (of course) my hand always comes back to me empty.

Another yellow morning, I coast the tip of my finger across the shore of my scalp,

a migraine there (of course). Who are we but a field full of all of our thoughts? I am

growing a garden. I am attempting to unearth truth in the soil.

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