Neither Habitual Nor Bent

When the left speaker blows,
my spine shifts. My inner sense
of direction fluctuates
as the days shrink.
As my heart expands,

I will run through the fallen
leaves without amplification
soon. What has loosened
the wire? A cat? A mouse?
A bat? A louse?

Yes, I know the rhyme
needs to slant
more than that.

The last time
I asked if
you sell waterbeds,
you laughed me out the door
onto the icy street.

Waves of nostalgia
mistaken for nausea
overcame me as I swam away.

My inner ear and outer
edges have ached
for years.

Library patrons
are customers now. Patients—
clients beware. We’re all looking
to buy those words
we misheard

in stereo, those love lines
we forgot to sing
to sleep.

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