Cold.
Run a ***** finger
along my cheek.
Sap my attention like temperature
And my thoughts stray to the occupants
of the wind out of boredom.
What horrible faces
they must have.
Faces lifted simply, effortlessly,
from the drowned
and flicked casually for
Wear by the zephyr and the breeze.
And they push push push us all
Away from ourselves,
indwelling ball bearings
Being rolled about in our plastic box.
A paper reality
that seeks no more of truth.

Simply push push again
at the catch and break off the lid.
To polarize and shatter the
Egg shells of ignorance
And walk on them,
Floating clamshell gods,
to break the clouds.