Back

                        to a cusp of time before I stopped answering back, I am living
in a delusional state of eating the moon
with no one saying, Is that your belly? Or I’ve cut my ears off

or closed them—whichever sells better—as I don’t want a museum,
the attention, as that’d be the belly. Now, there are words for

“or there were”. But my brain just isn’t made that way; so what I have left
to say, is short. And I’m not too happy
unaware my solo career is a competition

I started. So why be pure with your head down? Are we not all looking in the mirror at home? Is ego death
not what you’ve just said? Come on—it’s a block of cheese!
A lovely summer trip. Almost too dreamy. Delusional? Sweet, pleasant,

peasantry pageantry is where we could stay at
with a lump in the back of our throats; or we could

just go to the moon, which is what, a few billion? But not so complicated
if you cover your ears and blinkers and belly (I hate them) and stop reading into it, rounding

nothing off
as the ice melts away, hardens

itself melts
away hardens.