stillfugue

When it comes back, it is
thick cheese on French onion
soup. It is a net that drowns me.
That old brick building, solid red
with windows crashed, splintered,
with chicken wire on the second floor
porch. The porch is the jump pad, for
head first, gently, with grace, knowing
that maggots will crawl from my eyes.

I gaze and pray for the breezes,
inside the building, longing for a crisp,
drying motion before the man
of substance gets here, smiling,
hoping again that people won’t see
my chaos of thick cheese through
warping of tears that come from
a nothingness like a fly stuck in the soup.