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