That blue swirl with the twinkling lights
is my anxiety about money.
The red slash with hairs
is my anxiety about my health.
The orange crescent is my anxiety
about my family members—what
are they doing now. Are they Okay.
I'll reduce them to dots.
Stomach surgery is reduced
to one bitter flavor, a snifter
of swirling herbal fumes.
The dots swell in my brain
as I recline by the window—my
brother walks down the street
to his lab, my mom pours
hot water. I look at the orange
pulse of brushwork.
I can see the steam
as the people run hollering
along the cold sand.
The eye of the beached pilot
whale reduces to one pixel.
I rolf its struggled breath
to a stretch of slivered line.
I walk along the silver line to get some coffee.
I feel the black bile rise in my throat.
I slide the bile into its proper place:
one of four corresponding humours.
One hundred years from now
I will not exist, I remind myself.
I place that thought through the mouth
of a tall glass vase, a pool of filtered
water. I watch it bloom and wilt.
I watch my face distorted in the bulb.