living inside a cloud of
secondhand flannel and
my own electric hair
longing to curl in like
a fern, like a cat's
soft belly.
the fog descends,
slaying my hopes,
keeping them low:
a fear of heights
and brass.
velvet womb.
mulberry street makes
the others seem so drab
by comparison.
i'm fevered with it,
the dimness.
reaching out for
the maroon burlap
the whale cries
the seashell echoes
the moon smeared
across the lake
the banjo humming
the other brighter world
where no eyes are on
brave me and i
behold all.
