Time is biting me whence I know I’m not time less I’m instead placed in it firmly
ferment and filaments adjusting. This style is not mine not one I tried but the pacing has begun
like a scorpionic eagle grounded and
a tamed troubadour
my head like the clothes
in the washing machine, spinning but with the purpose of becoming clean, fresher but weighted by
the rinse water of that last cycle before the door lets them go, released freed and then further captured on drying devices paraded even.
all displayed like grey jeans and work clothes which uniform and conform to what rules
can be followed or swallowed even durance of that is less potable than the stain that still remains
and the offending item is consigned to a second wash and drying.
my head my thinking
is fine it’s well con –
but a little powder residue is always left behind in the draw
and the scent of freshness
flows up each nostril