It belongs to history. It sits outside the tub.

I sink into warm, static suspension.

The mind races around the block quickly, 

attends events, watches people’s reactions

to stray bull dogs.

Everyone has the same mind, except for me.

My mind wears too much blue, chirps instead of

sighs, eats noodles for breakfast. It jumps 

higher than Lebron, twists itself into Thursdays,

often forgets everything isn’t connected

but more of a lonely accident.

My mind watches you across the room. It 

studies the way you lick your lips,

sees the soft touch of your short fingers, 

the crossing and uncrossing of your legs. 

It makes my mouth move. Words, not mine,

come out poetically, with force.

I once left my mind in Cleveland on a dark

street by a bar I’d not normally visit. It liked 

being there, in the lot, late into the night,

waiting for someone who drove away quickly, 

not looking back.

Don’t forget the overlapping pieces of brain, 

spaces for images.  I ask my mind to go there, 

find what is open,  convince me to take every 

other gap, or to stay where I am, floating.

The mind will come with me, 

no one will get hurt, you’ll be there.