Angelica Tao Poet Free verse

The Psychologist

We have tendrils. 
And kaleidoscopes or something bad. 
A nest or a gravestone clock. 

We make mind-pasta. 
Debris.
Gravel death and word paste. 

The psychology of me gets wrapped up. 
It’s because of the dome. 
Meteorites caved it right in. 

The psychology of me changes sometimes. 
Like towels get changed to new towels to the old towels but clean. 
The psychology of me speaks through that constant dampness. 

Nothing gets into this cracked head of mine. 
Except for garlic toast. 
Crawled right in.

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Jeanette Swan January 13, 2026 at 2:34 AM Sudden laugh at the garlic toast - gotta be some way in - and toast it is. As always, your metaphor and juxtaposition make for a surprising journey. I would never have thought of the mind as a clean towel, or a musty one: it is a true kind of image. You have a fascinating poetic voice. J :)