FAWN

My head is clouded, its shape

measured by sand and lead. Its impression

comes out small—and I

dislike its smallness. Mourn it

and blame it for itself

Where are you?

In this moment

I am a constipated gut

An itchy eye

A warm thing

wanting for other

warm things

Creativity was put down

for a nap months ago

The lichen looks like

nothing but lichen. I have

confused abstraction

somewhere in the cemetery

between the stones

that are no longer stones

because they are angels

Day turns into breath

A dusk without a darkening

I try not to think

about death. Try

not to think about

sentiment dug up from

a grave, a slope

toward purgation

and pre-portion

A feral bird says,

What do you have?

but she knows

depression

is a disease of

perception. I have

calculated this

finding into everything

I do not want satisfaction

to be tragedy

I do not want our child

to drag the string of

childhood behind him

or distrust in symbolic

order. I would like to be

in an insanity that works

A moment where the past

Isn’t shaped by the present

I would like to be

in happiness

A different type

of memory