Amherst in Braille
Is that my brain on top the bus or am I just living
in the street, in the hallway? Thing after thing:
Hammer in a washcloth, knife in a washcloth.
You list off your friends to kill them,
make the floorboards tick, pulse as a Walgreen’s
sign, but your name is Los Angeles.
Hurl a rock at my mansion of Slow Down signs.
Put a leaf in the road to make it spark.
Touch the whole hydroponic garden at once
if you want it. I’m done again with crying.
The moods move through you, primarily, though
waves hammer me through stump after stump.
I’m really over this time. Water in the nylon sheets,
the nightlight you avoided all smashed on a table
like evidence. Read me some electricity,
some good clean clarity. Read me how hammers
fly in batlike and square off the room.
Read all the subtitles, running weird to the woods
where you made all that sense.
