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.