Yesterday is gone.
Sometimes I wish
time would linger
on my breath, on my skin.
Sometimes I wish
time would slow,
pull backwards with me,
keep me still.
Time would slow
if tomorrow didn’t speak with tongue
twisted, words of interest
sporadically thrust into dandelion seed.
Tomorrow speaks too much.
Tell me a chamomile story,
turn off the light and leave on the lamp,
the lava lamp
Let the light illuminate me from
my head to the bend of my
knees,
while I bury myself deeper into my
mattress, release myself
to the lullaby of loose linen.
Keep me quiet.
Keep me calm.
Keep me still.
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