A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

With pharmaceutical clarity, I could

map each train of thought, see

the network, the major stations where

the lines intersect, and I was able

to sort the thoughts and feelings

whichever way you’d prefer – 

alphabetically, by colour, by

just how much they hurt, by whether

or not they draw blood, but there

were responsibilities, expectations

in the light of day, and so I shelved them

neatly for tonight. But now the sky

is darker, and the paper whiter

and none of the trains are on time;

points not changed where they should be,

signals crossed, derailments, collisions.

All day I shouldered the loads, believing 

I could put them down at the end, but

here and now they are a murky puddle, 

a cacophony of pain, and I can no longer

hear what they are trying to tell me. I hear

only everything else: the hum of appliances, 

my own breath, and yours, the cars that pass,

and I feel every inch of my skin, and why 

can I focus on everything except the one

thing I want: to unravel the knots in my head