Trembling I am like a planet,
rolling, creeping by but gone in a sudden
second, for nobody realizes to look up and see
me thriving in the dark.

A garble in the earth,
swilling dirt I am hungry for corpse
parts and numb things that will
haunt the ghost heart, here settled
upon the pedestal pillow.

When I was a tyke ripping up grass and stuffing
handfuls in my pockets I remember an old
humming that would escape from out the garbage truck
from the gathering of all our junk in it and it
sounded like the wheezing my dog
would make when having a seizure haaaaa-haaaaa
and a squeal haaaaa-haaaaa.

I shiver myself free from
unknown unknowns and sleep when
insomnia visits, weird looking and stringy;
around the living room
we polka
and-one-two-three-and-one-two-three-and-
one-two-three.

Daylight descends upon me and night
collapses into my chest like a child starving
for a hug from a mother long gone.
I take an ice cube and
shove it in its mouth, hoping to chill
all the hot empty it holds.

Ribbons take all the ceiling,
moving in droves; like a colossus all the millions of
tentacles stretch down and pluck
every hair from my head, two by two.

I look up and through the black arms I see a sun,
trembling, wondering if
its rays are ever coming back, if they‘d wish to.
Shivering.
Thriving in the universal dark, the sun
goes out when no one’s watching.
Like a switch.