don’t say the national day off work aloud.
it ruins everything—turns it from a feeling into an annoying
lack thereof. but what i mean is, though i don’t have an album
for mid-july or december first, i always keep november

pine antiquing saxophone with seasonal wood-burning
stove environs on a tab, while i read or write or hug
stuffed animals. it lacks the standard words and images
that never connect or relate, but it keeps the sound of adhd

everything going to be alright. this shadow white noise
blankets me better than the perfectionist day
ever has, as it keeps the national time off
work’s struggle bus with me in its soul’s

fragmented spirit—a shining, frozen
water flake or all that—melting into me, as it is,
and when i show it that it actually can relax,
it thrums, honey, you now too.

first feat. in Corporeal