of yesterday. It’s stuck in
the plasterboards and sung
as a lost chord. I rehearse every line
at night when I can’t sleep. I can’t turn
down the volume to the sick beat.

I can’t get my head out
of the billowing clouds. I wear
my pain as a shroud. I weep
lightning rods the size of stallions. But
it's shrunk my brain down to a bulb
of a scallion.

I can’t get my head out
of the front door. It’s swelled the size
of a piano. None can know that feeding it
every day has made it grow.