& make a tent out of loose-fitting neurons:
a tabernacle in the daily grind
of contrapuntal voices overlapping.
I’d like to spend three years inside your mind
& build a temple & a sacred site –
an icon made of cerebrospinal fluid.
I made a cistern. Through the pitter-patter
of thoughts attacking like a thunder-storm
there is a reservoir which draws the mass
of hopeful yearnings, duly dissipated
in the vault of nervous nothingness.
“Now, he notices only my absence, the things I have not done: a thin layer of dust in the hallway, an unprepared meal in the pantry. I’ve started abandoning tasks just to see if he notices, the calculated neglect like a beam from a distant lighthouse.”