Isms

Molenbeek falls from my lips 

like a boy growing 

into a bomb. Like 

night terrors jolting 

me each time 

I reach the edge of sleep. 

The human mind grows 

back. Wild, 

windswept, asperous. 

I trace the lines 

on a map 

to find the distance. 

How little I know, 

I know. 

A goat charges. I 

wake to see, it 

is only a figment. 

And in sleep, 

still, I know nothing 

about how

you are

Author's Note

2015