the subsets of his haunts
organized and packed away
tugged and pulled and pushed
like hefty parcels and
the tension in his fingertips
like the prickle and pop
of pins under and over and in his skin

and the subtle swell of dread
swirling in his stomach
from a nightmare he had the other night
the happenings in which he couldn't quite remember
but it bothered him more that he couldn't
perhaps if he could just remember
it would clue him in to the catalyst of the day
if his subconscious had predictive powers, that was.
but he felt like something not good was going to happen
and whenever he had that feeling–which was, ad nauseum–something not good usually, eventually transpired
and that was enough to let him know

like something trembling the equilibrium
in the labyrinth behind your ears
to pull him like his hefty parcels
left and right, side to side
the feeling would tug on him about his day
but he wouldn't change its course