Your head a black hole
drawing all things
(credit cards, tulips,
babies and toupees)
to it
your head the end of all things
sucking a haiku reality in
and spitting out trees, lumber,
and bedroom sets
your head white noise
funneling a cosmic rubber band
into a shiny b flat from Miles’ trumpet
your head brushing by a nonsense
channeled into something we agree on
tacitly, unsure
