subtle

I live in a soft grey
Tiny fingers
Reaching
Holding, and ice
Fills my mouth.
I can breathe.

I float in and out
Of blinking
Fettered to the
Cycles-
Eyes made of feathers
(The color of bricks)
Twitch on the ground
Beside me and
I am happy.

The music box
I swallowed
Seems mechanical,
But it's not
And maybe the answer
Really is seven letters long
On a perfect scrap of paper
From the hands of
A man who
Might know best.
Questions
Fract-
ions
Simple.

But the reaction was
instant,
I became Lots wife-
when I thought
That I
had so much control

Why does my mouth
Form that word,
Never any other
and
Why does my mind trick me
Into thinking
blue
Is the color of healing.

I guess
if I really wanted
To know
I'd use proper
Punctuation
I guess
If I really wanted
the sun,
I'd stop praying for
Clouds that have
Perfect
empty
Bones

I'm drawn out
From slight intentions
And pencil shades
Fade with time.

I guess dormant ticking
Is the easiest thing
To cope with,

when you're folded
Flat
On paper
And you can't remember
Anything but
The soft static
Of cotton-spun
Spoons.