Tilting.

You know how they say there’s a man on the moon
well there's a man on my tonsil. He never leaves though, only
A lump in the throat. Like the books lined neatly on the shelf,
it tilts, the lump, with the unsteady flow of a clocking brain moving loosely.
Mirrored and engaged with those blue and red lines like we see
In that of a 3D movie. The mind has no rush to clear the haze. Instead,
wanders the foggy winds of thought and tries to open boxes
without tops to hold. That sounds like a slippery feat. It doesn’t sit straight.
Like the books that can’t seem to hold it together but they should.
Shouldn’t they? Bound precisely, by the factories wishing. Unless,
There’s something amiss. A miscommunication of distorts. Leaving
The things around and within us breathful. I think you mean breathless.
Enough. There’s no need for that one hundred percent. A tear sheds
from the corner of her eye, loose but with a firm landing. A filmy wash of
Tired trials ache to make sense of the twisted knots. Still no give.
No tell for energy’s return and arrival. For now, the swoon has taken a liking
To her. It's staying with her with the tilts of blue and red lines .



The eye can’t focus for very long.