Turning Away
You go outside yourself
look back,
a storm of salt
bocks your skull
from seeing thoughts,
yet their wings flap like dying pidgins
on city concrete.
Washing your hair over the sink
blood returns to a floating mind.
You have shorelines, waves,
you are something
doing something,
but mostly you are steam
on the face of a mirror.
Salt hot-licks your mind,
you taste of wet dog.
Eventually you enter
the body fully clothed,
but outside of you
the world is still naked
and snarling.
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