Bobble Head
the air in the skull is stale
not ready yet to be noticed on sight
or seen
as anything but a question mark
submerging in a fish bowl
of watching
reconnoitering
feeling around the margins
where the walls
are as porous as tissue paper
lids crank open
let it come
let it go
it being an ocean
on this small planet
one has to save as much space as possible
40 acres is hard won
easily lost
where did the warm dark oblivion go
said the question mark
the sky in the leaden head is clearing
all but the thinking is shrinking
down
to a spot,
a dabble of words in a pond
a mule brays in ohio
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