Something thieved tuning from the autistic sink. Disheveled pitch of the faucet sizzled like television-static, snowing over the dockside’s broadcast,
the sponge nonabsorbent to fishermen’s stories now.
No nautical news ached the teacup, filled with a nightmare’s whale-song, a vast hymn to old fears, pouring awe and magnificence on a massive musical canvas. Audio-Jackson Pollock there of beautiful pain, tamed randomness to reflect experiences in color, cooing at memory’s dirty dishes the brain hadn’t cared to wash.
Gestures of cleansing ventured out the window, framing / partial night; Partial cars, drivers unfinished elsewhere without a universal license / to the nightmare’s whale-song.
Its beginning dug deeper into the past, and hit abstract waters, distorting origins of pain, generalized forever.
Answers to suffering’s equations awaited solving daylight
that hid in a celestial closet:
A sliver-opening of brightness. protruded — omnipresently / revealing the…
A passing car, white as a shore, eroded by the pavement, eroded by a new car driving by. Its swishing blur disappeared. Then houses crashed against pavement; the cleansing spooked back to the kitchen; the celestial closet closed suddenly.
The trauma is the abrupt movement from solution’s pregnancy to miscarriage.
Nightmare’s whale-song mourned just the same until morning.