Clemens Road

I get lost
on my walk
to see you
in your lost

state. Boiled down
to a translucent film
at the bottom
of a pot, what’s left

will be our eyes
and our hands. They speak
a language
of truth.

Surreal Ocean

Tide rises from all sides—this surround
won’t bring back my father’s words of advice.
In a dream, I refuse to walk along the granite bluff
with my sisters—this is no return to Ireland. This is

what gets made
up before dawn closer to the Mississippi
than any hint of salt. Pastels
on sleeves—watercolors in the sky—pollution

at dusk—can’t have a January
thaw without a frozen
plain. A surreal ocean
comes to mind.

Pons

Another cruel reminder, cut
across the cheek upon waking—she is powerless

over her dreams. All those words
he lost will not be retrieved

the way her unconscious mind plots
it. The medication she lost

is not hers to lose. If she could
control them, no kisses planted

with perfect choreography
could open any trap doors

to escape from the message:
not to be false.

Aphasic (Day 2,773)

Numb’s the word.
Just past summer 

solstice, no rain, muck
blows off 

as a dusty burst
of thoughts you may have—but 

they will remain trapped
in a cephalic void. The conversation 

is over.
I’m not ready. 

My jaw aches
from clenching 

teeth against the cruelty
of your disease. Look out, 

I can’t predict when
or where I’ll bite.