I deconstruct a black nova
creeping back like Tolstoy’s white bear;
confused dreams rise
like a prayer to some satellite
and then back down to my ear—
colors the brilliance of a high fever,
logic like Dalí clocks gone soft as throw-rugs.
A turn of the index finger away
from disconnection, a shroud of words.
I might break like glass
if I don’t stop. Rehab my heart.
I don’t call for help.