I’m walking with my eyes closed,
the shadow of the blind. I always
wish for blonde thoughts, narrowed
by some light I do not understand.
I’m talking with my hands, rows
of middle fingers waving at people
who do not understand. Noses
poking me in the back like blunt
knives. I bruise, naturally, peachily.
I follow the mind less travelled. So
I always fish for remote moments,
by some shadow I do not understand.