dear lordgodlordgod,

take the bones from my face, please. for this i pray and for nothing else. take the bones from my face, please, rearrange them, clear the works, and then put them back, centered, square. take the eyes, soak them in something (anything) and put them back. there be a tension cast from the shoulders, the pit, up and over the scalp, saturating my lobes, my eyes and occipital. the phrase darning needle, lord, why that phrase? why the close work in these too-small chairs? the phrase shallow grave. buried and just out of reach. winnowed endeavor. a thing tumbling into siphon, losing itself. brazen hussy. a big expensive face, a toothsome display. the staunch pilot. the dream in which i kept too close an eye on a group of neighborly people gathered good naturedly in my yard to the front, the side, and off toward the Lee’s field. my face cries for a monstrous yawn, for demusculation. i didn’t see anything, i didn’t see them do anything, i saw them do nothing. it’s like i want to yawn, i’m crying to yawn. i want to peel back my face into this monstrous relief i can almost just imagine feeling. do you know what i mean? a chasm seems to be widening in the world. might i bore a couple holes into my head? trepanation? why this phrase, lord? i look at everybody. they want to yawn. all I see is eyes. eyes peering up from dirt, from surfaces of water, from trees and buildings and asphalt, and they ache. rolling around, peering. it aches, the peering. and when we sleep we dream of yawning, of vacating, but then it is still ongoing, an almost imperceptible thrashing, a keening of molecules if you are alive to the sound. i am dying to yawn, dying. i wanted to keep an eye out, make sure that they were not up to anything over there, anything out of sorts. friend of an old friend? deep perspective in a bleached-out yard. no shadows. crisp outlines. indefinite perspective. the phrase yoked to my wagon. (bottom dragging.)