Sometimes I don’t remember
to breathe, waking up
in the middle of dreaming about Thriday
to answer the call
of a voiding anaphora—
Lady Nocturia—a girl with a big nose
trying on my latest peekaboo trochees
and fortune-cookie wisdom,
where the magical word ‘suppose’
might put on high alert the unassuming,
unaccustomed to word scavenging.
At least she never offers the fiat currency
sung by the god of others’ idolatry
and all the proponents,
where a Spider-Man kiss lands
as an awfully lively practical joke
in a reluctantly diagnosed deepity
after years of accumulated damage—
how very humane of her—
once a sudden rain washes the easel
with dark pastels and a splash of ink.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 