Once I Was the Size & Shape
Doll-hospital, genre of last words,
a deer cell blots the sun into pigment.
Strangers look like people. Walk
on the grass like it’s their food court.
I am hungry. I am helmet-hair. I have lost
sight of the rubble-mall.
The game of telephone you started
in nursery school never clips, circles
back as Self-Portrait with Boxing Gloves.
Hear me over your dream, mosquitoed
to your night-ear, as I try not to cover up
the air. As I wave away the halo of expectancy.