There’s plenty of time, no need
to choose before one’s ready,
early evening will do just fine
for a little myth demolishment.
Bare beneath the slipping tweezers,
speak into the handheld, or,
if wordless with discovery,
sketch the follicle-thin outline
of what it feels like to be afraid.
The internal exile finds herself
staring at the clues they’ve missed.
Go easy, critic’s darling, cough
and act natural, the monsters
are loitering in the hallway,
they haven’t yet apologized
for the busted door, the dyslexic
warrant. 69 upside down is still 69,
buddy.