UNSORTED

graceful is not how my knits wit.
not how my bees hive.
my thumbtacks lack thumbs.
my truncheon, a braid 
of smoke hammers
in a dustbin 
curling around a hard spot
in a Ghost.

i am unsorted.
such a thing that a box
mocks. or daylight
shames.
i am an elegant mess
on the fringe of 
a placid sea
of dreams.
my swagger is a lurch.
and my albatross
haute couture.

i’m unannounced
in the foyer
of arrival

a bent penny
worth a 
dime.

and almost in love 
with something-

i can’t recall.