opening

down the trail of no more snora
down the path of no repose
when the eyeballs meet the sonny
when the mouth, the fingers, nose

when the eyelids brush the eyeballs
round as stone and unaware
where i'm walking doesn't matter
cuz, you see, i am not there

all these items in the pantry
every mountain windy hair
everybody and their counting
disappear in thinnest air

small as grey as roasting pain
brain leaves so many to rake
it's all left in snags and bitter
when i fall down in awake