Getting Lost is What I’m Good At

Bored, I trouble over cobwebs, cardboard, mouse poison,
loose tongues of insulation, + a river-cold black (the flash-
light in my mouth won’t stop sheathing its sword) until I
have it again, the Lite-Brite, my childhood hallelujah.
Then
+ there, I hunt for an outlet. Plug in the box of other light
+ peg the holey paper with whatever bulbs—small bullets—
are left. The sailboat becomes a volcano, ‘cause there’s more
orange than blue or green, + the snowman is a scarecrow
without any white—only yellow.
Like what’s seen behind shut
eyelids. The blur + glow. The back of your head on fire. A
needle into a lean arm. + I throw the toy across the attic to
hear it crack, the scatter of pegs the sound of tin-roof rain.
+ I hate what I’ve done. That this, too, reminds me of drugs.