palimpsest
knucklecrack o' dawn. senses rouse. rusty like my french. sparrows chirp on a spiral fire escape. tizzied gossamer wings. windowsill nests. before i wake i'm with my brother and he's ringing my doorbell and crying and holding nintendo games and i tell you this because you are there beside me in the bed and there's no one else to tell and you ask why he cried and why dreams gotta be so sad sometimes and why tears fall at all and i say i can't remember and i don't know and this is how most mornings go. remembering antannaed reveries. poor reception. like a very important news broadcast that keeps cutting out. unscratchable itches. unprovoked boners. pianistic fingers. a patchwork quilt for windowshade. a rudimentary fan for mock summer breeze. if we can pretend these things are permanent then maybe the light under the door crack'll stay away. i feel puffy, smoothed and reused. this age requires firmness. a solid mien. yet i writhe and revel in malleability. mine's not a playdough soul. i will not harden with time.