The way it works: I can hold a thought
in the dew of my breath, but tongues
sometimes are scissors I take,
rearranging clothes tags into the bin.

Things can get slightly better,
when I find my way like limp tissue
dragged underfoot onto the pavement,
pressed like a flower by a heel,
and I see concrete like a horrified insect,
those pressed flowers, my eyes

closed and my imagination sleeps,
last night's mournful ashtray appears
as if a holy epistle, putrid beer
puddles part what I leave in the drawer
like a tongue-perched stream.