Night-Blister
A chair was made to resemble our folds.
My folds complain against bones.
One day I will sit down inside
the world’s oldest motel and realize
I am only a vacancy.
I will miss the insides of my childhood log cabin—it was made entirely of plastic.
Its green roof collected the ecosystem—my mother tickled me with brilliance.
Today I recite the configurations of daylight, yet I am teased by night-blister.
Nightmare has plowed me into the long-haired pour above riverbed.
Strands of my muscles float atop riverbed while
I (the rest of it) sink into blindfold.
Night-blister is the snapshot I cannot forget:
a fish removed from its scales.
I want to return to my childhood log cabin.