somewhere behind my eyes,
something sandy, sticky, and incomplete
It seizes me, this something, it seizes me and I wrestle it into the sand

It’s the middle of the night and the tide of mind is high
the sweetness of grief for days is shortened by a run-on sentence
that swims in the reservoir in the cavern of my it-cage

lines and lines of prose like the tines of nonverbal sound
that pierce my swiss-cheese-brain, 
words like filament framing the ecstasy of open mouth
and a tongue and a ring and a 
vibrant twisted string upon which the muse decides to sing

tell me you can hear my sentiments like sand, my words like a tapeworm
my thoughts a sedimentary rock wrapped loosely around my heart

My severed serpents
My clipped prose
My mini medusas
thoughts turned to stone

closed curtain dancing feet
lock the door, be brief 
snakes turn into gold at midnight but by morning
their heads roll around

and I grieve for the muse without a home, 
the muse who seeks repose
in the lattice of a silver throne