Faith is the paperbag I breathe into when air is scarce.
The presence of holes is inconsequential.

I’ve taught myself to ignore misplaced light.
When I close my eyes, gumdrops taste like poppies.
I’m convinced when I spit, a field will bloom.

Red is a born-again color, but in the rain,
cheap fabrics bleed. It’s hard
not to get discouraged. On down
days, my tongue turns to mud.

You don’t know what it’s like to go fallow.
You worry about going lame.

In Sandbridge, I met a schizophrenic.
We moved into a room on stolen credit cards.
When we quarreled, I’d send Charlie
to the pier, demand he count seagulls.

Folded inside his suicide note, Charlie
left a white feather that smelled like salt,
lost buttons, and every color in the Crayola box.
He said he’d always loved me,
but couldn’t tally birds that kept moving
and all looked the same.

Confusion is a hat filled with slips of paper. On each, a name.
I don’t know Charlie in my hand, but he expects a present.

Hair sprouts where I shave. I once knew a girl
who plaited her pubic hair, but wouldn’t let me see.

I learn how to single-stitch crochet foot long chains.
My shrink is proud of me.

I dreamed I had sex with a parking meter, but don’t recall
who initiated the exchange. Either way, it was satisfactory.

Fur-balls don’t belong in a hospital. Elijah coughs,
spits them into paper cups. His dead mother no longer visits.

Outside my window, the moon sags like a wool beret.
I long to chain myself to the stars.

So many people forget my name. I remember
who I am because I rehearse it.

What would it be like to be someone else? Today,
I answer to names other than my own.

The bipolar in the next bed scribbles words on her headboard.
Mostly, she forecasts rain and claims her genitals smell

like poached eggs and whiskey sours. She stole my softbound
Astrology for Dummies. No wonder the planets won’t align.