I want to be unfound.
Strangely, it smells of Christmas.
Things going bump.
A gloved hand flies up
from under the coffee table,
or at least, I thought.
I thought in pointillism so that
from a distance we blend together.
The hand is gone now.
Just an electronic hemorrhage.
I didn't mean to see that,
Only I woke in the middle of the night.
What I wanted to say, is that I'm a wreck
and my mind is not made of houses
but, snail shells.
I take one self in the morning, one at night
with a fist of grasses.
© 2006 Maggie Lopez