My Calendar

"What day is it?"

A hook for stones

and bricks reclining on glossy loose-leaf.

"Too fast! Too fast!"

I tell the Galaxy.

"Please spin a little slower!"


What root is it

that now gives birth

to this asphyxiating paranoia?

My brain scrambles

in shaky circles,

At trying to glimpse my timid fears.


They hide from me,

my fears. I ask:

"Show me the face of what I'm afraid of."

Nothing answers, but

these stones way a ton.

Why do I always forget to flip

the calendar?