sometimes I think I cannot read because I do not remember
this has been a capricious three months, a grey stone with irritating little holes

the film of ruminating ice slipped over the what-is-happening- 
beneath I need to change a handful of things:

a carousel of wizardly and dark purple horses
chased and chased by their boastful, rapunzel-maned counterparts

I google 'why does everyone hate me: mental illness'
it is not quite the frantic attempts to create certainty

(often in very expensive ways, on the list of things)
and neither quite the wack of an axe

hitting a calloused, cedar throat: I am a failure
a seesaw of clutching and purging, bumping my knees

knocking my ankles as friends with paranoia call my work and say, 
"I think they are afraid of me" and I know that voice

others move away with just few weeks notice, a pair
of train car-sized fingers has squeezed the tip of the axle

of all of it and given it a pinch and whirl: will there ever be time to heal
a wall is collapsing somewhere far off

and then the thud of another, nearer
I am moving so fast I can see the contours of the larger shadow