The moon flips, open a day,
ripples and metal kneaded into a cup,
quiet drum from my soul has delayed,
by the bed's edge, push me // to a drop,
Everyone sleeps at the stop.
Crushing fragrance as it's blown,
through the skylight where // no roof is known.
Heads peer over edges, // playing hide to side,
their presence fleetingly among,
While shrimp floats in the sink below,
just a fork needed // till dawn's light is thrown.

Toothpicks serve as hangers wide,
as fountain waters might // dampen what I like,
As a result,
I jump down flicking // rails so smooth and glide,
shouting in sunlight with nothing to hide.

Finger press the viewfinder with pride,
No signatures forever from sight to slide.
So replacements exist when memories arrive,
waveforms crushed in mouth as diaries alive.

Becoming lovers by the sea,
or walking to bed // toward flowers and seed.
All that remains // in sight are birds at sky,
And bed, and you, and me.
And cats and parks on benches beside.

Today inevitably becomes the today
after suicide and the day.