Thorazine at 10:00 a.m.
Nobody told the river run from what you’re made of.
The bramble on & on for miles. On the rocks, unsteady
hem of riverbank. I know by now exquisite gowns
wide open in the back. Old fashioned hospital. The bills
all churning yellow as a heron’s mouth. I’m out to lunch,
some charted water along the bridge of doctor’s nose.
His finger pushes spectacles. He’s troubled by my wonder.
All the daisies I have chained around my neck. He pulls them up
right as he concentrates. I keep my hands behind my back.
I get what’s given. Single file. Some charted water like a miracle
they could have fed the thousands—pristine scripts and pills.
A guardrail on my shoulder, miles & miles. Before I fall
asleep, I dream they gravel every blue thread in the dark.
The bus comes like a flower in the rain.
