Steam from the Blue Closet
The door never shuts even when we close our eyes. The corridor umbilical. Everything passes through. The people rushing by like stars. I don’t know their names.
Anthill. Dark egg. Turnstyle clubbing our thighs with its metal arms. My mind a switchboard, my hand a tree. The parts stutter.
The breadbox is no more. The icebox. The coffin. Pixels of ash.
Blowing smoke. Random as cigarette speech. How is this about subways and trains.
Inside some combine, recombiner, some filer of the edge, some mother’s kiss.
Not only clouds fall from the sky. Plushy albumen coverlet. Island of cream. Unravelling bouffant shag.
Training wheels off. No microscope view (one slide at a time). Falling back into the familiar or falling forward and chipping your tooth. 
Appetite: Handbills and Thumbnails
Locked Up Tight
Steam from the Blue Closet