These Clouds Don’t Hold Rain

Songs in the sky, white space isn’t white
space anymore. Pauses come loaded
with unbroken, relentless light. A blank
canvas, flat stone plateau—no more

void. Even these empty cans

get filled with purpose
and smoke detector malfunction trickling
out to wake the dead. I see nowhere left to fall
into a truly uninterrupted sleep.

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.