We Are On Hinges.

Our brains from the inside
can’t open very wide at all
with hinges made of shattered glass
that creak down long dark halls.

You’d like to take a rag
to wipe the rancid smell off;
the odor like a pungent bag of
rot and dirty corpse-like moss.

Do you see it in the shadows
of heavy contrast canvasses
or in a gold-flung open window
through the crevasse
of a locked keyhole?

Stomp through irreverent mud,
my dear
but please be good.
Pixie dust there is none.
God, please let there be one.

Your full dirty self may clot
and paralyze the right side
held close like an atrophied hand,
hoping all can make and can rock
rock your hands asleep,
putting to bed
the party you’d find if you opened
every one of our heads.