cocaine in the saltshaker
after Chaplin's ‘Modern Times’
You don't know why your head can't stop
following the spin of the lighthouse bulb.
Everything works within these circles;
the umbral fingernail triggers the curved
flick of gruel into a selfish eyeball.
You remember the dream as a factory fish,
swimming through the cogs of water
until the pressure pushed you out of sync
into the back of the ambulance,
forcing you to renounce every pattern
even those on the linoleum flooring.