My brain is a thinking box where ballots
come every quarter of a heart’s beat.
Bubbling in a furnace of air, they leap
to hit the high ceiling of a novel thought.
My soul presides my counsel as God’s elect.
A letter opens to write my prompt,
a letter to guess its place in my mind map.
It steps into a bright moment,
an “Aha!” that wanders off an ellipsis
to lose itself in the mundane, the familiar habit
like a dishwashing liquid I pump and squeeze,
foaming into a crème dela crème of words.
It absorbs the...