Resting on a plate-glass, um, plate, my angle brain softens,
dissolving gritty sugar thoughts, congealing—
CLOTS, that’s what they’re called.
The skull is basically a Jell-O mold, you know?
I think mine is a bundt pan, a hollow copper foxhole;
on my fifth trip around the headache, I get to punch
my Frequent-Criers© card and just call it circumspection.

NEWSFLASH I’m tucking the gelatin
into its OWN got-dang shoe box for a change.
It cries crocodile tears spilling from the baby monitor,
and I’m moss-eyed, you know? My ideas are strictly decorative—
angry, grime-coat tchotchkes. I just MISS
when they were beasts.