Poetry Update #2

    On Holding the Machinery in My Hand

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There, the occipital lobe, the

frontal, the temporal. Cerebellum.

The mind in my hand smelled of

rubbing alcohol and plastic. Splitting

apart the soft mass to see the white

branching web of nerves cocooned

underneath. Touching it, I felt the ageless

desire awaken, the machinery of

thought trying desperately to understand

itself. Sensing the need to understand. 

Before it is shrink-wrapped in

a plastic bag

that smells of rubbing alcohol.

     Remembering a Rain Song
_______________________

The damp cold air shudders the
lungs, making breath more real than
thought. Water clinging to the trees.
Remembering a rain song, as
always, that sounds like the
pond at Bushy Park with
drizzle carpeting the waterlilies,
that sounds like the glistening stones
of the Hellfire House in the wind.