148

My memories of blindness are immense

like the loss of the little ants I’d track

or the specific taste of brown mouth rinse –

fresh near-vomit every night, off the rack:

I never thought I’d think clearly again,

but the monotonous rain has spoken,

blowing mud-like murmurs from gods to men

that help hold up this worthless gold token:

Now the imperceptible ants scatter

at the sight of my water’s limpid spray,

while the shallow air fills with gray matter,

and rats flutter in trees just feet away:

The screeching halts start as metallic coins

that get soaked in water and flood my loins.

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