When Thoughts Become Asteroids

drip. Boom. tack.

What I know is twofold:

water makes the olive drum

beat, and my pillowcase

fills up, one grain at a time.

Filtered sunlight is worth

a grain. Soggy shoes, a couple

more. No rain here, only holes

we forgot we dug. As far as their bones

are concerned, a whole cup.

My bad. Or yours maybe?

Were our breaths planted, or

pressed in between?

I stretch a lowly arm through

iron bars and my short nails

barely scratch the surface.

Nothing else matters, but

it feels strange. Wet, like

wood chips and shoulders.

They should never have been cut.

I imagined counting hours on the bus

and my pillowcase fell over, sad sack of

shit. You would know

what comes next. I don't,

but I think it will be nice

to rest my head for once.