(pet the skin)

My brain is the fucking air drawn out of us, alone.

(if we attest)

My brain is the blood under her door.

(half season)

My brain is the crying hour when she released the bats.

(nine fires)

My brain is a punchline repeated day for night and on the last pulse timed with our dreaming.

(breach posits)

My brain is the left anchor swinging small town ceremony.

(welcome waits home)

My brain is an arrow glance for golden mines.

(saving names)

My brain is the clip from an unanswered daze.

(sultan stole)

My brain is the face-carved city streets whose harm still welcomes me.

(by quiet hands)

My brain is the terror, surrendered.

(reason mccoy)

My brain is a low end stride in the waves.

(the tide at narrows)

My brain is the mistaken scholar in whose pressed fate we met acclaim.

(lifting up the clumsy fog)

My brain is the table top wreck that loved you once.