Chaparallel

The daily, steamed appraisal waiting for
Porcelain and promise –
That I can show the plum-drum ritual of how
I think we all think of ourselves, and our lives
So well described on forearms and
Four legs.

I’d like to be remembered, at all times –
And is that selfish?
I want my eyes and cheeks longed after,
Put left-side along the brain where the gray flesh can
Exponentially warm it’s overlapping, flapping…
Flittering recollections of how I think I
Remember you.

But we don’t talk long enough to furnace
These thoughts, or have them
At all – but instead – and this is where my bruised skull
Has versed, traversed and gone reverse –
What we do instead: is nothing.