I can feel the throb
of the bellows in my chest

within the crest of my clenched
left hand.  The red sun

of my diaphragm is perpetually
stuck traversing my horizon line,

rising a bit, then setting some,
and so on.  My ears stare outward

like the dead eyes of a fish,
a gateway to the inky blackness

both outside and within.
But I digress!  Now is not a time for such thoughts, friend!

Come!  Let us sit near this hearth,
and I will tell you about how

consciousness is being spackled
to the insides of our skulls

in this house where you and I live.
I will tell you about the memories you lost

when you were injured in the war.
They are filled with gorgeous women

on motorcycles, and handsome men
in leather jackets with fine-toothed combs in their hands

or t-shirt pockets.  I will show you
a tornado and a rock garden,

side by side.  We will walk
down this one-way street, together.